Domus Discordia
by Mattwho81
Summary: At the birth of the Dark Imperium the Storm Heralds return home. Yet instead of rest and safety they find only intrigue and danger as their bonds of Brotherhood are torn asunder. This story is a sequel to my previous story Locum Ignotum.
1. Chapter 1

_Storm Heralds Reading List_

 _ **Book1** Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur._

 _ **Book2** Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi._

 _ **Book3** Captum Ante, Venenum Filios, Locum Ignotum._

 **Domus Discordia Chapter 1**

Lujan II hung in the dark, a shimmering sapphire on the velvet blanket of space. It was a beautiful world of expansive oceans, tiny islands and diminutive continents, prosperous and fertile. That jewel was placed in a setting of shining silver, a ring made of sensor buoys, defence platforms, starforts, system boats and shipyards. A new ring of metal to replace the one that had been lost in fire.

Towards that jewel came a lone ship, a single wanderer coming from far away, weary and yearning for rest. She was a massive Capital ship, clad with heavy armour and with rank upon rank of guns, a queen of warfare and destruction. Her hull bore the spiral in a starburst icon of the Storm Heralds Space Marines and her name was the Thunderchild. Upon her bridge her Captain stood upon the command dais and looked out of the Oculus at the welcome sight of home. He was young for an Astartes Captain, barely over a hundred years old. He had one organic eye and one red augmetic with twin diagonal scars rising on his cheeks. His armour was a glorious Artificer plate, with a red cloak and a precious Relic blade on his hip: the legendary Sword of Thiel. His name was Toran, Captain of the Third Company, and he was glad to be home.

Toran looked out into space and said, "Home at last, what a welcome sight."

From the helm station Furion, the stalwart Sergeant of the command squad, commented, "It looks busy, I've never seen so many pilgrim ships jostling for space."

At the Sensorium Brother Persion mused, "They were probably trapped here by the Warp storms, the Immaterium has never been so rough."

In the Enginarium pit, Bylan the loyal Standard Bearer, uttered in an augmetic rasp, "+The Empyrean heaves and roils, our passage was troublesome enough but I dread to think how such ramshackle vessels would cope+"

From the Ordnance Pulpit Novak, the irreverent Company Champion commented, "Any port in a storm, who knows what's occurred while we've been gone."

That troubled Toran more than he was prepared to admit; Third Company had been swept away by the terrible Warp Storms and caught up in fantastic events. Time was never certain where the Warp was involved and the effect had been pronounced. Third Company had been away for months, from their perspective, but here at home five years had passed. Who knew what may have occurred in the meantime?

As the Thunderchild heaved into an orbital approach the bloodthirsty Brother Jediah called from the gunnery pews, "Is it just me or are those defence platforms orienting towards us?"

Toran dismissed the concern saying, "They are probably having trouble identifying us, sporadic Warp storm activity is still interfering with communications and Auspex. Transmit our recognition pennants, that should clear things up."

The Thunderchild continued its approach and Toran turned to his advisors saying, "Once we dock I will seek an audience with Chapter Master Gorgall. There is much to discuss."

Before him the blue, white and black of his senior advisors stood proudly, young Librarian Arvael, level-headed Apothecary Memnos and of course Chaplain Wrethan. Wrethan spoke first saying, "We must make contact as soon as possible, we have a hold full of refugees to disembark, they need to be resettled as a priority."

Toran still wasn't used to Wrethan being concerned for the welfare of the common folk, he usually advocated the idea of having them all flogged. Their time away seemed to have had a great effect upon him. Although it might just be the case that the Chaplain wanted the mewling civilians off his ship. Toran bowed in respect for the Chaplain's new attitude and said, "Yes, we will see to their needs with haste. There is also the matter of Honourable Ajax to deal with."

Wrethan snorted, "Ajax prowls the decks like a caged predator and terrifies the serfs everywhere he goes. Normally I would approve but in this case the sooner we get the venerable Dreadnought to his stasis-crypt the better."

Toran knew he was right; Ajax was the oldest Dreadnought in the Chapter and the most revered. Every Storm Herald respected and admired their venerable Brothers, any Dreadnought was a lauded hero of the Chapter and their wisdom was beyond dispute but Ajax was in a league of his own. The Contemptor was as solid as a rock, one unmoving constant in the galaxy, but he was also exasperating to deal with. Toran was just glad he didn't favour coming to the bridge, he would barely fit through the hatch and would scare the Serfs when they were supposed to be working.

Apothecary Memnos changed the subject and said, "Home, I scarcely believed we would see it again. I wonder what we have missed, what wars the Chapter has fought in our absence."

Librarian Arvael concurred saying, "There is much to be learned. I must consult with my Master; the Librarius will have more information on the wider state of the galaxy."

Toran nodded and said, "Especially Terra, we have heard nothing from the Throneworld. The Chapter must have more information."

Memnos mused, "The Astronomican still shines, if somewhat erratically, is that not evidence that Terra still stands?"

"But in what state?" Arvael countered, "Is Terra besieged or prospering? Does the Emperor require us to march to his aid or stay here and fight on the border; these are questions that need answering."

Toran understood the dilemma all too well, the galaxy had fallen into darkness and the Imperium had never known such woe. Terrible Warp Storms still eclipse vast tracts of the galaxy, cutting off interstellar travel and communications. Information had become a priceless asset in this time and Third Company was starving for more.

As they limped home all they had heard were cries of distress and laments of horror. Daemonic incursions were everywhere, Xenos horrors spilled out from the darkness and the entire northern half of the Imperium had been split off by a galactic rift some were calling the Cicatrix Maledictum. The worlds of men were cut off from each other, besieged by nightmares or falling into rebellion. Never before had the need for the Emperor's light and armies been so dire and yet from Terra the Thunderchild had heard nothing.

Toran was shocked out of his ponderings by a servitor's wail and he leaned over the rail to bark, "Report!"

From the Sensorium Persion called, "Captain, those defence platforms aren't standing down, they're coming to bear. We also have system boats on an intercept course, gunports are open."

Toran was shocked to hear that and called, "What?! This must be a mistake, retransmit our recognition pennants."

"I already have," Persion spat, "They say our pennants have been rescinded, they accuse us of being Traitors in disguise!"

Toran looked up aghast at the strategic Hololith projected high above and saw the icons swirling around the ship. The Thunderchild was caught in a web of closing vessels, small system boats, gun platforms and deadfall torpedoes. He saw swarms of attack craft spilling out of hanger bays in the orbital starforts and defence monitors coming to bear. The ship was enclosed on all sides, surrounded by hostile forces.

Toran hastily ordered, "Open the vox and transmit in the clear: to all Imperial forces, stand down, you are targeting a friendly vessel. This is the Thunderchild and I am Captain Toran of Third Company, personal recognition cypher: Lexa-three-seven-alpha-Griffon. I repeat stand down!"

The vox crackled for a moment and then a voice proclaimed, "We don't accept dead men's lies. Prepare to be blown out of the void."

"Dead?" Novak uttered in shock as the vox snapped off, "They think we're dead?!"

Suddenly Persion leapt up in shock and called, "Warp hells, we have Astartes Strike Cruisers inbound, three of them! It's the Legacy of Glory, the Hundred Centuries and the Pax Mortis. They are on an attack run!"

Toran couldn't believe what he was seeing. They had come all this way, suffered so much and now they were about to be attacked by their own Brothers. Surely this was impossible, how could it end like this? He had to stop this before a disaster occurred.

From the Enginarium Bylan called, "+Shall we raise shields?+"

"Negative," Toran snapped, "Do nothing provocative. Keep signalling our recognition pennants."

But Persion only called back, "They're not breaking off!"

From the gunnery pews Jediah shouted, "Captain, request permission to run out the guns."

"Denied!" Toran snarled, "We have to convince them that we're really us!"

Suddenly Arvael stepped up and called, "Open the vox. This is Librarian Arvael aboard the Thunderchild, recognition cypher: Kappa-one-nine-Zeta-Pegasus. I confirm this ship is loyal to the Chapter and untainted."

Then Memnos called out, "Apothecary Memnos, recognition cypher: Questoris-two-eight-Maestro-Dragon. I vouch for this ship's identity and purity."

Persion shook his head and said, "No good, they're coming across our prow, Bombardment canons locking on!"

Suddenly Wrethan stepped up and declared, "This is Chaplain Wrethan to all ships, recognition cypher: Ego-tempus-non-habent-quia-haec-stercus! You will cease this idiocy immediately, else I will come over there and flog every last one of you whoresons!"

Persion looked into a display and then said, "Errr… they've paused their attack. Message coming in, they want to know if that's really Wrethan."

"Of course it's me you worthless cretins," Wrethan snarled into the vox, "Now I want a face-to-face with whoever's in charge of this absurdity."

Long moments dragged out and Toran felt a bead of sweat run down his neck, what was the opposing commander thinking? Would they talk or resume their attack? The tension could have been cut with a knife but then the comm pedestal flared and projected the Hololithic image of a Space Marine. He was a stern and patrician Marine, in glorious armour that rivalled Toran's own. His features were sharp and senatorial, more like some venerable politician than a seasoned warrior's. Toran looked upon him and felt a rush of relief, he knew this Marine, he had served under him.

Toran drew in a breath and said, "Ninth Captain Phalros, what a pleasure to see you again."

Phalros looked stunned and said, "Toran, Wrethan… it can't be, you're dead!"

Toran breathed a little easier and said, "I can assure you, we are not."

"But…" Phalros spluttered, "But you were declared lost in the Noctis Aeterna three years ago, the Chapter officially mourned you. Your names were entered in the Scrolls of Honour."

Wrethan spat, "Well some sorry serf is going to have to copy them out again and correct that, because we are back."

To his credit Phalros seemed to recover his poise quickly and said, "Where the hell have you been?!"

"A long story," Toran sighed, "Suffice to say we have returned and we have weary warriors eager to see home. Not to mention a hold full of refugees, whom I have promised to resettle on some of our homeworld's deserted islands."

Phalros shook his head and said, "Not back five minutes and already causing headaches, it really is you."

Toran was nonplussed by that and said, "We request permission to dock and disembark Third Company."

"Defences to stand-by," Phalros said nodding to someone outside the projection field, "You have permission to dock but not disembark. We must inspect your ship and crew for taint before clearing you."

Toran was surprised by the cold reception from his former commander and said, "We vouch for our crew, is something amiss?"

Phalros looked shifty then and said, "Things have become complicated in your absence, it may have been better had you stayed away."

Toran blinked in surprise and uttered, "What are you saying?"

"Not here on an open channel," Phalros hissed, "I will come and collect you, you can speak to Chapter Master Gorgall in person and see for yourself. Stay there and for once try to do nothing foolish."

The link snapped off so fast Toran blinked and he stepped back saying, "What was that about?"

Arvael looked thoughtful and said, "He looked worried, I suspect we have missed a lot."

Toran shook his head and said, "I think we had better prepare to be escorted to the surface. Furion, you're in charge while I'm gone and don't do anything to provoke those guard ships."

"Understood," Furion replied, "Nobody is to shoot at anybody without express permission, Jediah I am looking at you."

"Good," Toran then addressed his advisors, "Now let us go find out what has been happening to our home while we've been away."


	2. Chapter 2

**Domus Discordia Chapter 2**

The Fortress-Monastery sweltered under a blazing sun, the cloudless sky filled with brilliant rays of light. It covered the land and made the oceans sparkle with heat shimmer, wave crests spraying brine into the air. The Fortress-Monastery itself covered an extinct volcano, some forty miles wide and roughly as long. It was hundreds of miles away from any other land, which guaranteed the Storm Herald's privacy.

Serfs were labouring in the heat, sweat pouring off them yet despite the tropical conditions the work never ceased. The Fortress-Monastery was the base of operations for an entire Chapter and it was never silent. Orbital defences were test-fired and supplies gathered, tallied and distributed. Auspex and vox arrays scoured the heavens for threats while Astropaths probed the Aether beyond for mystic signs. In the Forges weapons and armour were blessed and sanctified. Apothecarions hosted the ancient ritual implantations necessary to turn children into Transhuman warriors while chapels rang with millennia-old chants, whose meaning had long since been lost.

Towards that bastion of busy industry fell a Thunderhawk, a blue gunship still shedding heat from the inferno of re-entry. It was tracked every inch of the way by defensive guns and missile batteries, but it transmitted proper clearances and was allowed to pass unmolested.

On-board Toran jostled in his restraint cage, bouncing around in the familiar style he was accustomed too. As they approached he had tapped into the gunship's external pict-feeds and watched as the world below swelled. He had done this countless times in his life and yet the sight of soaring over his homeworld never failed to move him. No matter what foulness polluted the stars it reassured him to know some beauty would never be marred.

He sighed as the Thunderhawk began its landing approach and he cut off the pict-feed. He glanced around the troop bay, seeing Wrethan, Memnos and Arvael in their own restraint cages. There was also one other present, Ninth Captain Phalros. He was standing silently in his cage, his patrician eyes closed. Phalros had said barely a word to any of them since he had collected them and he refused to engage in conversation.

An uncomfortable silence had arisen, each of them lost in his own thoughts. Toran found himself wondering what was the cause of this aloofness; the Phalros he remembered had been a stern but fair leader, one who had supported his rise to an officer. If Phalros did not want to speak to Toran it made him wonder exactly what they had missed in the last five years.

Toran was shaken from his musings by the thudding crash of the Thunderhawk slamming down upon its landing claws. The braking G-forces made Toran's enhanced bones creak and the fuselage squealed under the strain before it settled down. It seemed that despite everything else the Chapter's pilots remained as unbothered by caution and passenger comfort as ever.

Gruffly Phalros pushed his cage up and marched out of the lowering ramp, without saying a word. Toran exchanged glances with his advisors but they looked equally baffled and could only follow the Ninth Captain into the daylight. Outside Toran found a bare landing pad, surrounded on all sides by the various buildings of the Fortress-Monastery. He took it all in and was satisfied; there was no sign of the violence that had marred their home a decade earlier. It seemed that the reconstruction was at last complete.

Toran stepped onto the ground but as he did so there was a distinct rumble and he turned to see a magnificent sight. Coming onto the pad were a trio of Land Raiders, two Redeemers and a rare Prometheus pattern. The revered armoured transports were precious relics, whose Machine Spirits were held to be practically Brothers. It was a great honour to be greeted by such relics and it boded well to be received so.

Toran was quickly disabused of that notion as the machines raced forward, weapons trained unerringly upon them. The Land Raiders growled to a halt and the ramps slammed down to disgorge warriors onto the pad. Toran blinked as the flanking machines disgorged Honour Guards, their eagle-mask faceplates shining in the sun and their power axes glowing with energy.

The Honour Guards surrounded them, while keeping clear of the Land Raiders fire patterns, and their stance made it clear that they were ready to respond to the slight threat. Toran was bewildered by all this, what was going on?

Finally two more figures emerged, the first bore a long staff and a psychic hood. It was Chief Librarian Echeb, who prowled towards them with a stern glower on his face. Then at last emerged another Marine in glorious Artificer armour: Chapter Master Gorgall himself.

Toran blinked at the sight, Gorgall was armed and armoured but that could not disguise his harrowing visage. His face was worn and heavy with sorrows, weary in a way Toran had never seen before. He appeared to have waged a century since Toran had seen him last and seemed fatigued in a way no Space Marine should ever be.

All the party bowed as Gorgall approached and Toran opened his mouth. He was forestalled however by a raised hand and a look at Chief Librarian Echeb. Toran's armour registered the temperature dropping and he felt a prickle in his mind as something probed his psyche. He didn't resist but let Echeb examine his thoughts, testing his soul and scouring it for signs of taint.

After a minute Echeb declared, "I find no deception or taint, no signs of coercion or subversion. They are whom they appear to be."

Gorgall looked surprised and said, "I did not believe it, this defies reason."

Toran bowed low and said, "My lord, we have returned and stand ready to serve."

Gorgall looked at him coolly then turned to the others and said, "Your respective Masters await your reports. Go now."

Wrethan, Memnos and Arvael were stunned by the harsh dismissal but bowed before being escorted onto the flanking Land Raiders by the Honour Guards, Echeb following on. Toran watched them go but then followed Gorgall and Phalros into the Prometheus, surrounded by the Honour Guards.

Swiftly the hatch sealed and the Land Raider set off, driving away. Toran waited a moment then turned to Gorgall and said, "My lord, with all due respect… what the hell is going on around here?"

Gorgall sighed forlornly and said, "I hardly know where to begin."

Toran prompted him, "When last I spoke to you the Chapter was engaged in wide-ranging operations, then the Warp Storms came."

"Yes, the storms," Gorgall growled, "They came upon us with scarcely any warning. I issued an emergency recall order to all Companies but it was nearly too late."

Phalros took up the narrative saying, "The Companies raced home but were battered by storms, beset by Daemons and other horrors. A lot of Brothers were lost in the nightmare."

Gorgall continued, "Barely had the last ship made it home when the full force of the storms hit us and it was terrifyingly potent. This whole stellar system was isolated, we were unable to reach anybody else. After two years passed with no word from you we assumed that you were dead and officially mourned Third Company. It was just about the last thing we did together as a united Brotherhood."

Toran frowned and said, "I don't understand."

Phalros explained, "We've been trapped here, unable to set sail or wage wars. The isolation has driven a rift between Companies, between comrades and friends. All wondered what was occurring beyond our shores and how to respond, the arguments have been vehement and bitter. It's only in the last few months that the storms cleared enough for us to start receiving messages and sending out a few scout ships. What we are learning is worse than we ever dared to imagine."

Toran took that in, it was a harsh tale but he had expected worse. He drew in a breath and said, "So, you at least had time to rebuild the Chapter."

The others shared a significant look and Phalros muttered, "I forget what it is like to have such optimism."

Toran didn't understand but Gorgall stated, "We have been trapped here for years, boxed in with each other. Our internal tensions have become harrowing divides."

"It all because of Chief Apothecary Lessall and High Chaplain Samect," Phalros explained, "They have decided that they should be running the Chapter, they've spent the last few years seeking to wrestle away the reins of power. They have the hearts and minds of the Initiates; their talk of Emperor-Worship has never been more popular."

Toran gasped, those two had been agitating for years under the banner of the Emperor's Divinity but never had they possessed the temporal authority to challenge the Chapter Master openly. If they really thought they could usurp Gorgall then things must have become bad indeed. He rubbed his chin and said, "What of the others?"

Phalros snorted and said, "The Apothecaries and Chaplains are theirs. That's why we didn't want to talk in front of your advisors, there is no telling where their loyalties lie. Thankfully the Librarians and Techmarines are staying on the sidelines, refusing to take sides. As for Fourth Captain Jossat, Fifth Captain Tygra, Sixth Captain Erathor and Eighth Captain Hakulo, they have declared for the Emperor-Worshippers."

"I am a master in name only now," Gorgall said sadly, "Only Phalros and the First Company follow my orders anymore. Even Tenth Captain Judio ignores me, he ignores everybody now. He sticks to his own little kingdom in the Scout-halls and creates new Initiates, as is his duty, but he refuses to pick sides."

Toran was aghast at what he heard; this lack of discipline was unthinkable for Astartes. The Chapter had always had its tensions but this sounded like they had been riven in two. Toran spat, "Intolerable! How could any Space Marine disrespect the office of the Chapter Master so!"

"Did we all used to think that naively?" Phalros sighed, "Understand we have been cooped up here for years, with no outlet for our tensions and no enemies for us to unite against. Fights have broken out, Companies are divided, each one of us stays in our own barracks now and avoids each other as much as possible. This is not a Chapter anymore; it's a collection of feuding camps."

"Wait," Toran said as a thought struck him, "What of Seventh Captain Maxitio, when last we spoke he favoured you."

Phalros' face fell and he said, "There was an… incident. We were trying to reconstitute the lost Second Company and things came to a head. Both sides were determined to have their own man in place, Maxitio and I disagreed on how to proceed. He was too stiff-necked to accept our situation had changed. Harsh words were exchanged and then blows, he separated himself from us after that. Seventh Company have sealed themselves up on the western side of the island; they are a law unto themselves now."

Gorgall looked sad and said, "Tensions are higher than ever, Brothers brawl in the barracks and nobody dares to go anywhere alone anymore. I wear my armour night and day and I must have my Honour Guard at my side at all times."

Toran couldn't process what he was hearing and said, "This is a travesty! It cannot be allowed to continue, what are we going to do about it?"

Phalros sighed, "What can we do?"

Gorgall cut him off saying, "Not all hope is lost, Lessall and Samect have problems of their own. Their Captains bicker for position, each yearning to be the next Chapter Master."

"Idiots," Phalros snorted, "Lessall would never let any save himself sit on your throne, they won't like serving under his rule anymore than they do yours, my lord."

Toran probed, "You know this for certain?"

Gorgall explained, "I have an ear in their camp, a friend sympathetic to our cause. If he ever needs to speak to you will know him by the phrase 'Calth Stands'. Should you ever hear the words, 'Calth Burns', in any circumstances, it means the Grox-dung has hit the exhaust port and you should prepare to defend yourself."

Toran absorbed this and said, "So where do we begin?"

Gorgall rubbed his chin and said, "Your return presents an opportunity. Lessall and Samect violate the spirit of the Lex Imperalis but obey the letter. They are trying to look like they are following the forms, in public at least. I can call a meeting of the Masters, they can't refuse that."

Phalros said, "Now we want to hear what you have been doing all this time. Tell us your tale."

Toran leaned back and took a deep breath then began to explain where he had been and what dangers he had faced since last they spoke.


	3. Chapter 3

**Domus Discordia Chapter 3**

The Reclusiam was a place of solemnity and contemplation, a vast space that drank in all sounds and gave back an oppressive silence. It ran away from the eye, long lines of pillars stretching away down both sides until the far end became hazy and indistinct. The walls were festooned with images of the Chapter's victories over the forces of darkness and disbelief. Along the length of the nave were stained glass windows, each a work of art that a serf had spent his entire life upon. When the sunlight struck them just right they would project glorious images onto the marble floor. The roof was a triumph of the artist's craft, a stylised image of the masses bowing in worship before Him on Terra. One end of the Reclusiam was a large arch, plated in gold under which was an altar and smoking incense braziers. The smell of them filled the air, an enticing scent that made one breathe deeply and slowly, encouraging contemplation and self-reflection.

Along the length of the nave were recesses, within which shimmering stasis fields held the Chapter's most holy relics. There were banners which had flown in the most desperate of wars, locks of hair from Imperial Saints, a Storm Shield borne by the First Chapter Master and weapons, many, many weapons, each a beloved and potent heirloom. Here the Chapter gathered for its most sacred observances, here the Chaplains preached upon the Divinity of the Emperor and here the hearts of Space Marines were moulded.

Before the altar was a single Astartes, knelt in prayer, his eyes closed as he renewed his loyalty to the Emperor. It was Wrethan, Chaplain of the Third Company and he was seeking communion with Him on Terra. Wrethan had come here seeking to centre himself, for he was greatly troubled. Since he had returned home he had been fobbed on a series of serf-clerks and archivists. Wrethan had told his tale, over and over until he was weary of speaking and had told the serfs this in no uncertain terms. Then he had stormed off and made his way here.

As he walked he could not fail to notice the way the Initiates had gone everywhere in groups, none daring to walk alone and all wearing armour. Despite what many outsiders thought Space Marines did not live in their armour, it was a sacred relic to be honoured and tended to reverently. Armour's Spirit needed rest and repair as much as men and to press it into constant service showed grave disrespect. Whatever had passed in the Fortress-Monastery these last five years must have been harrowing indeed.

Wrethan was disturbed from his mediations by the crump of heavy boots on the marble floor. Two Space Marines, approaching from his rear. Wrethan bowed his head and made the sign of the Aquila before the altar, then stood. He was surprised to see two of the Masters before him, one in black, one in white. The first bore the sharp features and pointed nose of the Master of Sanctity, Wrethan's direct superior, High Chaplain Samect. The other was the scarred Chief Apothecary and Master of matters Biologic: Lessall.

Wrethan looked upon them and remembered his training as a Chaplain. Samect had personally tutored him, introducing him into the belief of the Emperor's Divinity and taught him the importance of presenting a fierce demeanour to the outside world. He was the most faithful of all Storm Heralds, a prophet determined to spread the true faith to all common men, not that creaking sham pedalled by the Ecclesiarchy.

Lessall on the other hand was the driving force behind the movement to break the Chapter away from the stifling confines of the Lex Imperalis and the pathetic rule of the High Lords. Once he had served in the Deathwatch and returned with the conviction that the corrupt and decadent rule of politicians and clerks was failing the Emperor's vision.

The High Lord's fearful and timid rule had dragged the Imperium into mediocrity and weakness and Lessall was convinced that for humanity to survive the Astartes had to seize control of the galaxy. Samect may have faith but it was Lessall who had the will to make it a reality. Together they were going to make the Storm Heralds great once more and restore humanity to its rightful glory.

Wrethan bowed low as they approached and said, "My Lords, at last."

The pair stopped and looked at the Chaplain, then Samect said, "So the wanderer returns."

Wrethan replied, "After a long and harrowing journey."

Lessall snorted and said, "One that defies belief, your report sounds like the ravings of a drunk."

Wrethan didn't rise to the bait, Lessall's will was fierce but he had little regard for sentimental feelings, an attitude Wrethan sought to emulate. Instead he said, "Every word of it was true, our battles beyond space and time were desperate and we bear the scars as proof."

Samect accepted that but said, "I find it interesting that you reported meeting other Astartes, of dubious origin and uncertain loyalty."

Wrethan countered, "Great heroes all, they laid down their lives for the Divine Emperor. They taught me much."

Lessall sneered and said, "I see they taught you to drag along thousands of mewling, filthy refugees behind you."

Wrethan couldn't let that pass and said, "They are Divine Emperor's faithful, is it not our duty to defend His flock?"

The Masters shared a curious look and Lessall said, "Has your time away made you soft?"

Now Wrethan felt anger stir and he said, "The Divine Emperor made us to guard His people, it is our purpose to defend and shepherd His flock and so serve Him. To fight for the Emperor is to fight for humanity and to fight for humanity is to fight for the Emperor."

Lessall sneered but Samect cut him off saying, "The Chaplain speaks wisely, humanity must be defended and properly led. It is the High Lords who have steered humanity into sorrow and ruin. Their pathetic rule has failed at last and collapsed, now is the time that the Storm Heralds must take up our true role. Only the Astartes can lead humanity properly, only we are strong enough to safeguard His people and build a new Imperium worthy of Him."

Wrethan felt excitement stir in his hearts saying, "Then the long-awaited moment has come?"

Samect proclaimed, "Terra has fallen silent and the Imperium is nothing but ashes. The way is open now for the Astartes to take their rightful place as the leaders of humanity."

Wrethan was amazed and said, "Surely this is a time of wonders."

Lessall said, "The weak and diffident High Lords are dead, there is now only one thing stopping us from making humanity into what it should always have been."

Wrethan knew who he was talking about, "Chapter Master Gorgall."

Samect did not smile, he never smiled, but his eyes twinkled in appreciation as he said, "Very quick, yes Gorgall refuses to see the truth. He clings to the past, to the shackles of the Lex Imperalis. Terra is gone, Imperial law is nothing but dusty scrolls, yet he refuses to accept it."

Wrethan shook his head; Gorgall had always been weak and timid, too moderate and rational to lead a Chapter. His enthronement had been controversial before it was even certain. A bitter political wrestling match that Gorgall had won by simply being the last man standing, rather than out of true merit. Personally Wrethan had favoured the late Captain Athead, whom he held was a far more worthy candidate in every respect.

Lessall explained, "We have been working to isolate Gorgall. Many Captains are with us, the rest are no longer on speaking terms with Gorgall. Save for Ninth Captain Phalros, Gorgall has no supporters left."

Wrethan was thrilled to hear that but could not help but point out, "He does remain Chapter Master though."

"A master who nobody listens to anymore," Samect proclaimed, "With these Captains by our side he must accept the new reality. You can come in now."

The far door opened and Wrethan saw four Captains approaching in their majestic armour, each a great hero of the Chapter. There was Fourth Captain Jossat, with his classic profile. He was an ambitious and driven officer with his eye on the throne of the Chapter Master. There was Fifth Captain Tygra, born from the secondary recruiting world of Trux; a cunning and guileful warrior, always willing to exploit any weakness his foes exposed.

Next to him was Sixth Captain Erathor with his head held high; he was the epitome of an Astartes, proud, zealous and disdainful of any danger to himself or his Marines. He too wanted to be Chapter Master, but he was no match for Jossat. Last of all was the fierce visage of Eighth Captain Hakulo, the Lord Executioner. He was grim and angry, always wanting to be on the attack and he bore the scars to prove it.

Wrethan was amazed, with all these Captains on their side then surely Gorgall must accept their cause. Wrethan bowed and said, "Brother-Captains, my hearts soar to see you standing with us."

Jossat looked down his nose and said, "A shame that you only bring us problems."

Wrethan frowned and said, "I don't understand."

"He means Third Company," Hakulo growled, "Toran came back and ran straight to Gorgall's side."

Wrethan swallowed and replied, "A report, nothing more."

Erathor snorted and remarked, "Don't be blind Toran is Gorgall's man, your attempts to turn him to our side have failed."

Wrethan didn't like the way that was phrased and said, "Third Company is loyal, they merely follow the leader of the Chapter. They may not actively aid us but should we win then they would not hesitate to obey orders."

"Wake up, Third Company will fight us tooth and nail," Tygra snorted, "Toran has been nothing but a problem, him and his sanctimonious Primarch's Own. We see him swaggering around with the Sword of Thiel, like some superior cur. A shame Third Company came back at all, we should leave them in orbit to rot."

Wrethan was getting defensive now and spat, "Perhaps you would like to explain that to Honourable Ajax, he's up there too and getting angry at the delay."

That brought a sudden silence, Storm Heralds revered all their Dreadnought brethren, but Ajax was a living legend. The idea of anyone present arguing with Ajax in any way was farcical. Ajax was the living history of the Chapter; he was the embodiment of the Storm Heralds. To oppose him was unthinkable, even for this assembly.

Samect raised his hands and said, "Let us not argue, we all want the same thing, to bring this Chapter into our congregation of True Believers. We have only to remove those that oppose us. Now Wrethan the question is, will Third Company stand with us?"

Wrethan thought about it, he wanted to say yes, he wanted Toran on his side but he could not lie for Toran had always been ambivalent about the Emperor-Worship. Wrethan had hoped he would come around but that time had passed. Wrethan drew in a sad breath and said, "No, they will not aid us. The only way to bring Third Company around is to present them with no other option. Only once Gorgall has been forced to accept our cause will they bend the knee."

Lessall declared, "Do not worry about Gorgall; a plan to end his obstinacy is already in motion."

Wrethan bowed and said, "Then I will return to my duties."

"No," Samect demurred, "You have been with Third Company too long, an inglorious posting for such a worthy Chaplain."

Wrethan was confused and said, "What are you saying?"

Samect said, "You shall not return to the Third, in time another Chaplain will be assigned to them."

"I am to be transferred?" Wrethan asked in shock.

"Far from it, you are to be promoted," Samect proclaimed, "The office of Reclusiarch has been vacant for too long, ever since the Tyranid wars. I have decided that you shall take up that role."

Wrethan was stunned, to be the Reclusiarch was to be Samect's second, a rank of great esteem. Yet it would mean leaving Third Company, leaving his comrades in arms. There was also the tiny thought that Samect would be able to keep a much closer eye upon him from now on.

Wrethan shook off such unworthy thoughts and said, "I am honoured and humbled."

Samect accepted this saying, "Welcome to the True Believers, your time with Third Company is over."


	4. Chapter 4

**Domus Discordia Chapter 4**

The primus-Apothecarion was a cold and sterile place, a sanctum against infection and microbes. It was filled with mysterious machinery and vials filled with bubbling acid or alkaline substances. Serf-medicaes went to and fro on esoteric tasks, tending to duties that had long since descended into ritual. Strange tanks stood in long rows, filled with growth mediums. Within those tanks gestated the sacred Gene-seeds, the implants necessary to create Transhuman warriors.

The space was not only a clinical facility; it was also a shrine to the arcane mysteries of the sacred Gene-seed. Shrines dotted the walls and in a raised pulpit a venerable serf-medicae read aloud night and day from crumbling medical textbooks. Meanwhile passing serfs would genuflect before icons of Him on Terra, whose genius was the fountainhead of all that occurred here.

In ancillary chambers Neophytes sweated and screamed upon the cold hard floors, their bodies being broken and reworked by their newly implanted organs. They had been left there for hours and even days in some cases, wailing as their bones snapped and muscles swelled at an obscene rate. None of the passing serfs paid them any mind and neither did they offer anaesthetics or antibiotics. The forging of a Space Marine was an arduous and painful process, one designed to winnow out the weak and flawed. If these youths could not overcome pain and infection on their own then the Chapter had no use for them.

Into that space came a Space Marine in white armour, his Narthecium proclaiming him to be an Apothecary. It was Memnos and he had come home. Memnos paused at the dual doorway as clouds of caustic fumes swept over him, sterilising his amour and killing any germs that may linger. His helm was off and the fumes blistered the skin on his tonsured head, but he dismissed it without flinching. After a minute the fumes ceased and Memnos stepped through the second set of doors, followed by a blank-faced servitor carrying a large cryo-chest. A serf came to meet the Apothecary and bowed low as he said in a ritual chant, "Welcome Master, we are prepared to receive the Chapter's Due."

Memnos made the sign of the Aquilla and repeated the ritual response, "By the grace of the Primarch I return this sacred Gene-seed to the care of the Chapter. May it bring strength and vitality to our ranks, so that we may serve the Emperor better."

The serf bowed again and led the servitor away, taking the casket with them. Within that chest were the progenoids of all those who had recently died in Third Company, their genetic legacy being taken to the deepest vaults to be harvested. With bounty such as this were new gene-implants forged and so the circle of life for Astartes could be renewed.

Memnos stepped back as his burden was returned to its rest and he looked about, taking in the Apothecarion. He had been away for some time but he was reassured by how little had changed. This facility had operated unchanged for millennia, not even the Chaos invasion had reached this deep, five years was nothing compared to that.

Memnos had been planet-side for a few days now, waiting until Third Company was cleared to come down from orbit and bring the gene-seed with them. Memnos had spent that time making reports and being repeatedly cross-examined. For some reason his every word had been doubted and queried, over and over, until he was utterly sick of the barrage of questions.

Finally he had been freed and he had come to check upon a most secret and audacious work. Quietly Memnos made his way to the back of the Apothecarion, where a plain blank door was positioned, completely ignored by all. Memnos looked over his shoulder but the serfs were pointedly not looking so he opened the door and stepped within. Beyond he found a small ante-chamber, where two gun servitors waited, with Heavy Bolters. Memnos paused as they swept him with biometric auspexs and was satisfied when they lowered their muzzles to let him pass. He stepped past them and found himself in a smaller Apothecarion, one with significantly less personnel within.

Within this small chamber were ten beds, each bearing a neophyte in a comatose state. They were bound down with leather restraints and look febrile and ashen-faced. They were sweating and groaning, rolling their heads in agony and muttering all the while. Memnos only had to glance at them to tell that the majority were dead and the rest looked ready to expire at the merest breath of wind. This was not what drew his eye however, for walking along the row were two Adepts. The first was a serf, pale and gaunt, like he never saw the sun or even left this chamber. The other wore white power armour, like his own and boasted an absent-minded but familiar face.

"Korios!" Memnos called in greeting.

"Hush," the other said, "I'm not finished. Now where was I, ah yes: Subject VP-372-e, no signs of brain activity, specimen non-viable. Schedule for disposal."

The serf made a note then the Apothecary stepped back and said, "Memnos, so you're not dead then?"

Memnos smirked for they were old friends and he had missed his comrade. Memnos replied, "You wish Korios."

Korios smiled in return and said, "It is good to see you, any interesting finds?"

Memnos shook his head and laughed, "Honestly a whole galaxy to explore and all you ever inquire after are more specimens for your laboratories."

Korios grinned and jested, "Well we can't all be lucky enough to get a chance to cure bio-weapons. Your work on curing that Phage was spectacular."

Memnos waved off the compliment and said, "What of your own work, have we made any headway on the visionary project?"

Now Korios sighed and said, "See for yourself."

Memnos did indeed turn to examine the line of beds, each with a blinking hololith set before it. This was the secret work of the Apothecary order, an attempt to improve the Gene-seed itself. It was not commonly known but the Storm Heralds hid a flaw, namely a defective catalepsean node. For a few select Brothers this flaw could produce astounding feats of deductive reasoning and intuitive leaps that bordered on prescience. The flaw was rare, striking perhaps only one or two neophytes in a generation but the strategic value of them was immeasurable, a tremendous asset. The Apothecaries sought to improve that asset, not only in number but in consistency too. The ability to make such predictions on command would be a priceless boon but that was easier said than done.

The Gene-seed was the work of the Emperor's genius and no lesser being could equal that depth of understanding. Interfering with those genetic wonders, even in the slightest way, produced catastrophic failures, rampant mutations and insanity. Even selecting the most promising of recruits was barely making a difference in the fatality rates. The rate of lost subjects was staggering, perhaps ninety-nine in a hundred and by the looks of things the process had not improved in the time Memnos had been away.

Memnos read aloud, "Subject VP-372-a, ischemic stroke, specimen non-viable. VP-372-c, pulmonary embolism, specimen non-viable. VP-372-d, implant rejection, specimen non-viable. Are none of these going to make it?"

Korios shook his head and said, "Doesn't look like it, I just lost two more, which reminds me. Serf make a note, subject VP-372-b, shows unacceptable ventricular fibrillation, specimen non-viable. Schedule for disposal."

The serf bowed and Memnos shook his head saying, "I had hoped for some improvement while I was away. The attrition rates remain staggering, so much work wasted."

Suddenly a new voice spat, "I am sorry you are disappointed!"

Both Apothecaries spun about in surprise and were shocked to see Chief Apothecary Lessall standing in the doorway, a fierce scowl on his face. Memnos bowed low, he had not expected to see Lessall here, in fact he had not seen the Chief Apothecary since his return.

Lessall strode in and snarled at the serf, "What are you standing around for, go and fetch a servitor to dispose of these specimens."

As the Serf hurried away Memnos inquired, "My lord, how may I be of assistance to you?"

Lessall loomed over him and said, "You can start by explaining this sham of a report you made."

Memnos frowned and said, "I was very clear and concise, the facts are right there."

"I am not talking about the mission," Lessall snarled, "I sent you to the Third to report on the Marines, especially that Toran."

Memnos was confused now and said, "I have filed regular reports, their health remains within acceptable parameters. Except for that Phage scare a few years back there are no issues to raise."

"I did not send you to them to check they are all eating their nutri-gruel like good little neophytes," Lessall barked, "I sent you among them to tell me what they think, where their hearts and minds lie."

Memnos was aggrieved by the insinuation that he was a spy and barked, "Surely that is a matter for the Chaplains, what's it got to do with us?"

"Memnos!" spat Korios in shock at the backtalk but Memnos was tired of being questioned and he refused to back down. He stared at Lessall who glowered back at him angrily.

The Chief Apothecary stared at him and growled, "For years now you have been ducking your extra responsibilities, your role in leading this Chapter. I let it slide because you are perhaps the finest medical mind among us, two visionaries produced under your care, two! But no more, I will have your report on Third Company."

Memnos stared at him and said, "I stand by my words, Third Company is sound."

"And what of this Primarch's Own," Lessall hissed, "They invoked that name in battle, against express orders."

Memnos knew it to be true but he had been there, Lessall had not, he couldn't possibly understand how desperate that battle had been. The Apothecary stated, "It was necessary, we stood on the brink, a rallying cry had to be made. We would not have made it back otherwise."

"And what of the Emperor?" Lessall growled, "Do they accept His divinity?"

Memnos didn't like the tone this was taking and spat. "Why do you care?"

"Brother!" barked Korios in shock and horror, "Watch your tongue!"

Lessall leaned in and said, "You had better explain that remark."

Memnos didn't know where his Master's anger had come from but he had been questioned and doubted to his wit's end and he refused to be browbeaten anymore. Memnos drew in a breath and exclaimed, "For years now we've been pressing this issue and I have never understood why. So what if Brothers worship the Emperor or not, they all fight the same. Our order was tasked with temporal concerns; we should leave spirituality to the Chaplains. Our role is to keep the Brothers strong, theology and politics shouldn't be allowed to interfere with that!"

Lessall's eyes narrowed and he shouted, "You dare lecture me upon our role!"

Memnos was actually shocked by his own outburst; he hadn't meant to say so much. He lowered his head and said, "I… I have offended you, I offer apologies."

"Apologies…" Lessall slowly uttered then he said, "That will not suffice, you have raised your voice to your Master and shamed yourself. Assign yourself two days of self-flagellation in the penance cells, to commence immediately. That should teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head."

Memnos was shamed by his own words and bowed low to hide the flush in his cheeks. He had erred and must pay for his presumption. He humbly said, "Of course my Lord, it shall not happen again."

Lessall growled angrily, "Leave now, before my forbearance runs out."

Memnos lowered his head and walked out, leaving the pair behind. Korios made to say something but was stopped by an upheld hand. Lessall waited until he was sure they were alone then said, "As I suspected, Memnos lacks the resolve we need."

Korios gulped and said, "My Lord, he had been away for a time, perhaps a spell back in the bosom of the Apothecarion would…"

"No," Lessall said, "He has spent too long listening to Gorgall's ilk."

The Chief Apothecary's face was grim as he considered the matter then he made a decision. He turned to Korios and said, "Make a note: Subject Memnos, moral dissolution, specimen non-viable. Schedule for disposal."


	5. Chapter 5

**Domus Discordia Chapter 5**

The Librarian's tower was a vast edifice, a single spire half a kilometre tall. It was a grim and imposing sight, covered in gargoyles and wards of abjuration against the horrors of the Warp. The Warp, the Empyrean, the Aether, the Immaterium, the Underverse, such bland names for that realm of corruption and malevolence. Despite the inherent dangers here the Chapter's Psykers would peer into the mysteries of that other universe, seeking answers. It was a task few would desire, the average Imperial citizen feared and dreaded the Warp and even Storm Heralds Initiates went out of their way to avoid the structure whenever possible.

For all its grim façade the Librarian's tower was busier than ever, a frantic hive of activity. The Chapter's Astropathic choir was also housed here, to better to keep the Pyskers all corralled together and those mystic savants were hard-pressed. In the choir chamber teams of blind Astropaths scoured the Aether for psychic messages, drawing in anything they could find. It was tortuous work, ripping their minds apart and several lesser souls had already burned out but they pressed on regardless.

Watching the seers in their trance was Librarian Arvael, who was observing everything with a keen eye. He was the youngest of the Chapter's Librarians, with only one genuine mission as a Lexicanium under his belt. He was clad in soft blue robes, marked with hammers and anvils, declarations of his talents in Telekinesis. Arvael had been glad to return home, the welcome bastion of the tower's psychic defences holding the turmoil of the Warp at bay. Yet the work was not done, it was never done.

Arvael watched as the Astropaths recited nonsense phrases and children's chants, each an encoded message plucked from the warp. All around them Serf-cryptographers and lex-savants copied and deciphered those messages, turning them into useful information. It was arduous work, the Warp seethed and most of the messages had been rendered into gibberish. Few messages indeed arrived undistorted and reconstructing the rest relied mostly upon guesswork and hunches than hard scientific procedure.

Arvael watched as the reconstructed messages were taken away, to a processing chamber. Here the information would be collated, cross-compared and rendered into facts. This was such complicated work that another whole team of serfs was required to undertake it. The messages coming in were random, vehemently contradictory and often wildly divergent on what was occurring elsewhere. Some messages were hundreds of years old while others seemed to be from years that hadn't happened yet. In fact some were whispering that time had broken across the galaxy, that some worlds were experiencing decades while others had seen mere days pass.

To sort the confusion the messages had been organised into three levels, reports which mostly disagreed with each other, those that agreed and those that had some corroborating third-party evidence. By this process some facts had been hesitantly established and the first coherent picture of the galaxy was emerging. Grim and full of woe but at least it was something.

Arvael saw a serf approaching, with a scroll in hand. The serf bowed and presented it to the Librarian. Arvael took it and his eye noticed that it had been compiled from three separate sources, as certain as anything could said to be given the circumstances. Arvael passed his eye over the rest of the contents and sighed, more bad news. He looked at the serf and said, "The Chief Librarian will want to hear this. Continue working and bring anything important to us."

As the serf returned to his work Arvael left the choir behind and began climbing the stairs up the tower. He passed by the multi-levelled Librarium, the greatest repository of lore the Chapter boasted. Then he crossed the level where he and other Librarians housed their apartments. The Storm Heralds had never been overly blessed with psychic power, including himself there were only eight Librarians in the whole Chapter.

Arvael had met them all and found them to be grim and withdrawn, always watchful and suspicious. A Librarian did not have friends among his own kind, for their first and greatest duty was to be watchful for the encroachments of the Warp. Each one of them was acutely aware that they may have to pass judgement upon another of their order and should they find corruption execute the tainted one themselves.

Arvael climbed higher and at last came to the Chief Librarian's chambers, the home of the Psykanna Primus. Arvael entered through the black doors and found the chamber to be filled with tables, each stacked high with scrolls. The usual collection of arcane devices and artefacts had been cleared away to make room and around those tables were the Chapter's Librarians.

The various Psykers were each clad in robes, marked with their speciality, and they were all sorting the reports while arguing about their meaning and significance. Echeb however was standing at the far wall, peering out of a window with a strange device in hand. His robes were marked with celestial bodies, twin-tailed comets and lightning bolts, marks of his mastery of the heavens and the storm.

Arvael marched up to his lord and master, seeing him intently studying the device. It was a small thing, somewhat resembling a sextant but one with far too many mirrors. It was the Oculus Infinitum, such a small title for so wondrous a device. It allowed one to peer into the Warp, as a Navigator would, and measure its currents and tides. A mortal would be driven mad by the attempt but Echeb had trained his mind to be the perfect tool and he could see far with such an implement.

Arvael discretely coughed but Echeb said, "A moment, the Astronomican still shines, I can see it, but why can't I see Terra itself? The Warp clears elsewhere but something still obscures the core worlds from my sight… why is that?"

Arvael coughed again and Echeb looked over. Arvael bowed and said, "My Master, more grim tidings."

Echeb glanced at the scroll in his hand and then carefully put the Oculus Infinitum back in its armoured case. Then he took the scroll and unfurled it, he scanned the contents and his face scowled in sorrow. He drew in a breath and said, "Brethren, pay heed!"

All activity ceased as everybody looked up, listening as Echeb announced, "Pranagar has fallen to the despicable hordes of Chaos. The Sky Sentinels Chapter is no more."

From the back a voice spat, "Another one?! How many Chapters are actually left out there?"

Arvael saw it was Codicier Wela, his robes marked with flames and suns to denote his power as a Pyromancer. Echeb fixed him with a glare and said, "Brave souls have fallen with all honour, show respect. I call for a minute of silence, to mark the passing of the Sky Sentinels."

Heads bowed in mourning and Arvael joined them in remembrance of the fallen. Then Echeb said, "Now duty calls, return to your work."

Arvael watched the Librarians work and inquired, "My Master, what progress do we make?"

Echeb answered grimly, "Every hour brings a fresh disaster, every report more sorrow and woe. Chaos is in the ascendant, the Imperium teeters on the brink. Since the Warp Storms cleared a few months ago we have sought any news from beyond our skies, but nothing we hear brings us any hope."

Arvael knew it all too well but still asked, "How did our homeworld fare?"

Echeb sighed and said, "Badly, many Pilgrim ships were blown off course and fled here seeking safe harbour."

Arvael nodded in understanding, the planet Lujan II sat amid a Pilgrim Trail that ran from Terra to Ophelia VII, the Saint Karyl Trail. The passing Pilgrim ships had been a great source of prosperity to the planet but now the flow had been cut off by the storms and the pilgrims had been left trapped.

Echeb continued, "The Lord Governor struggled to cope, I thank the Emperor that our planet's oceans are bountiful in fish and kelp; else the people would have faced starvation before the storms calmed. Other worlds weren't so lucky, we hear from the hive cities of Tectum and Angle's Redoubt that food riots killed millions and only the strictest rule of marshal law prevented total anarchy. The Forgeworld Crux Lapis only survived by culling much of its population and recycling the bodies to feed the rest. Though the Tech-Priests were more concerned about the loss of productivity than the lives ended."

"And the Chapter itself?" Arvael pressed wanting more details.

"Torn by infighting," Echeb explained, "Some say that the High Lords are dead that the rule of Terra is no more, others disagree. Politics set Brother against Brother and makes a mockery of our order."

"Are we still maintaining our neutrality?" Arvael enquired.

"Yes, above all else that is essential," Echeb declared, "It is not the place of the Warp to decide the hearts of men."

Arvael scowled, he didn't like this inactivity and said, "Surely we could do something."

"Gorgall has called for a strategic conference," Echeb stated, "The best thing we can do is gather intelligence and give the Captains options to pursue."

Arvael spied Wela frowning over a scroll and he asked, "Problem Brother-Codicier?"

Wela shook his head and said, "A partial message from Macragge, there has been an attack on the Temple of Correction. Though it's not clear if it was the Eldar or the Black Legion, both are mentioned."

Arvael gasped, that was the shrine of Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son and Eagle of the East, the Storm Heralds own Primarch and gene-father. Every Space Marine felt an instinctive pull to their Primarch and the mere thought of enemies threatening his gene-father lit a fire in Arvael's hearts. Roboute Guilliman had been mortally wounded fighting for the Imperium and been sealed in stasis for all time; he should be left to his rest with all honour.

"Did the Ultramarines win through?!" Echeb spat equally angry, "Is the Primarch safe in his stasis-field?"

Wela peered at the scroll and said, "The message is garbled, barely legible but it says something about the Lord Macragge repelling them, which must be a reference to Marneus Calgar. Then they set off on something called the 'Terran Crusade', the rest is gibberish."

Arvael felt a surge of relief, the idea of something threatening Roboute Guilliman could not be tolerated, his soul rebelled at the very concept. The Primarch was the work of the Emperor's own hand, he was the font of the Chapter's gene-seed and their spiritual sire. Adoration of him was encoded into the Storm Herald's gene-seed and he dominated their world-view. He was their greatest icon, second only to the Emperor in their affections. Though the Storm Heralds had been founded five millennia after Guilliman's internment they still revered him and obeyed his teachings as laid down in the Codex Astartes, though not quite as strictly as the Ultramarines themselves.

Arvael was distracted as a serf ran into the room, bearing another scroll. Echeb raised an eyebrow then snatched the scroll when it was presented to him. He quickly read it and then declared, "A message from Terra!"

Silence fell as all eyes turned to him, this was the first message they had received from the heart of the Imperium. Save for the Astronomican it was the first sign they had received that the Throneworld still stood.

Wela waited and then said, "My lord?"

Echeb frowned and said, "It's hard to make out, most of the message is distorted. It states that a Chaos incursion has been repelled from Luna and another from the gates of the Imperial Palace itself. It also proclaims that the High Lords have appointed somebody new to the post 'Lord Commander of the Imperium', but the name is obscured."

Wela frowned and said, "That's it?"

Arvael however was excited and said, "It doesn't matter, this is proof that Terra yet stands and the High Lords still rule. We have to take this to the Chapter Master immediately!"

"Not so fast," Echeb said, "We still have much work to do and very little time to do it. We must prepare as clear a report as possible for Gorgall's conference."

"But," Arvael protested.

"I will continue trying to decrypt the rest of this message," Echeb stated, "Now get back to your work. The Chapter needs as clear a picture of the galaxy as we can provide and it needs it as soon as possible."


	6. Chapter 6

**Domus Discordia Chapter 6**

The barrack rang with the sounds of many voices, ten squads of Astartes engaged in their daily activities. The Company barracks were self-contained domains, deep within the Fortress-Monastery, to better foster comradery and trust between Brothers. Each facility had all the dorms, canteens, shrines, workshops and the tools necessary for the squads to make their preparations. There were also a few basic training spaces, though these were no match for the multitude of environments and specialised facilities available in the wider Fortress-Monastery.

Currently Third Company was dwelling in its own barracks, enjoying the experience of being home after a fraught campaign. It would be a gross misstatement to say that they were relaxing, for an Astartes rest and enjoyment were foreign concepts. Even when not actively engaged in preparations for war there was no end to their duties.

Brothers reverently tended to their armour and weapons, chanting ancient litanies while cleaning the mechanisms and deferentially applying sacred unguents. Elsewhere Initiates poured over tactical updates and threat assessments of Xenos foes. They debated among themselves how to best defeat these enemies and which passages from the Codex Astartes best suited in any given situation.

In a small shrine a Tactical squad were being led by their Sergeant as they renewed their vows to the Emperor, the kneeling warriors showing a level of respect just short of actual worship. Across from them a firing range was being cleaned of wreckage by Servitors as a Devastator squad impatiently waited for the next round of targets to be brought up. Next door to them an Assault squad were sparring in a reinforced dojo, their weapons flashing as they honed their deadly craft.

Third Company had been here a few days now, and hadn't left since. It was notable that armed guards stood at every entrance, with loaded Bolters in case anything untoward occurred. The tensions in the Chapter were at an all-time high and Captain Toran had issued warnings that all Brothers were to keep a sharp eye out.

The Captain himself was not currently with his men; Toran was instead attending a most unexpected meeting in a secondary briefing room. With him were the rest of the Command Squad, Furion, Persion, Jediah, Bylan, Novak and Memnos, along with Chaplain Wrethan. Everybody was listening to Chaplain Wrethan, who was informing them of his change of circumstances, something none of them had expected.

Wrethan concluded his speech and silence fell but then Novak said, "So… you're leaving us?"

Wrethan eyed the flippant Champion and stated, "My new duties shall require me to spend much time in the Reclusiam. Henceforth I shall be responsible for the most holy of the Chapter's relics."

Novak couldn't hide a grin as he said, "Well, we will just have to muddle along without you."

Wrethan glared and said, "You can wipe that smirk off your face, you shall not be without a Chaplain for long. I believe they may assign Chaplain Megaro to the Third, you shall find that he is not nearly as tolerant and easy-going as I am."

Novak's face fell but Toran stepped in to say, "This is a high honour for you, one most deserved. Still we shall miss your fierce candour on the battlefield, your unflagging zeal and indomitable courage."

Wrethan accepted the compliment and said, "You do me proud Toran, I have watched you grow these last decades into a fine officer. I always believed you had greatness within you, continue to excel and I am sure that you shall win yet more glories. The late Captain Athead chose wisely when he passed the Sword of Thiel to you; it has never had a more worthy bearer."

Memnos remarked, "This isn't goodbye, we will still see you for formal occasions."

Wrethan's eyes lowered as he said softly, "But not on the battlefield."

Persion looked at the Chaplain and said, "It won't be the same charging into battle without you."

"You mean not having someone looking over your shoulder while you break into officer-level comms," Wrethan snorted.

Everybody chuckled at that, Persion was notorious as a signal-cracker, something that had got him in trouble more than once. Thankfully his skills were so useful to the Chapter that he avoided severe reprimand, but it had kept him from advancing onto the command-track, as he had always desired.

Jediah extended his hand and said, "You shall be missed, your strength was remarkable. I remember seeing you charge that Daemon on Camollum, every single bone in your body broken and still you ran at it, screaming your hatred."

Wrethan took the hand and said, "Remain strong and fierce Jediah but remember you are a man, not a monster. Oh and do try to keep the brain-eating to a minimum."

Bylan was next and said, "+I wish you good fortune and success.+"

Wrethan nodded and said, "And to you, keep that Banner flying high and you shall serve the Chapter well. Captain Toran is fortunate to have such a loyal Standard Bearer at his side."

"Fare thee well and prosper," Furion said formally. He and Wrethan had never really been friends; Furion had been dismissed from training as a Chaplain for his refusal to worship the Emperor as a god. Still he and Wrethan had a sound working relationship and the Chaplain said, "Watch Toran's back for me."

Furion nodded and said, "Always."

Wrethan addressed the group and said, "It is my greatest shame that I was unable to stand with you all when the forces of Chaos besieged our home yet it has been my greatest honour to serve with you since. But I leave you with these words: tensions are fraught right now. It would be wise not to do anything to upset the Masters and to let things take their course."

Toran brushed that off and said, "Squad, salute your new Reclusiarch!"

Everybody made the sign of the Aquila, then Wrethan saluted and made his exit. Everybody watched him go and Toran felt a mote of sadness in his hearts, the cantankerous Wrethan had been a fixture in their lives for so long that it was hard to imagine anyone else serving as their Chaplain.

Memnos looked puzzled and said, "What was that last part about?"

Toran shook his head and said, "A warning, to be wary."

Memnos rolled his eyes and said, "Why is everybody so irate all of a sudden? I will discuss it with my brethren; I have to get back to the Apothecarion anyway."

Toran looked at Memnos and said, "Brother, watch your back and keep your bolt pistol handy."

Memnos shook his head saying, "The way everybody's carrying on you think Abaddon himself was knocking on our door."

Toran pressed him saying, "I mean it, keep your armour on and your weapons loaded."

"Very well," Memnos said, "If it will make you happy I shall; now I have to get to my duties."

Then Memnos walked out, leaving the squad behind. Toran watched him go, feeling ambivalent, Memnos had never done anything to mark himself out as anything other than a level-headed Marine but he worked for Lessall. There was no way to know what occurred behind the Apothecarion's closed doors.

Novak waited a moment and then remarked, "Right, they're gone. So what are we supposed to do now?"

"What can we do?" Furion said, "This situation is a powder keg, one spark could set it off."

"+Surely it's not that bad+" Bylan protested, "+Despite our difference we are all Storm Heralds, one order, one Chapter. We are bound by blood and by gene-seed.+"

"I suspect that fact is all that's keeping anarchy from breaking out," Furion remarked, "Otherwise we'd be at each other's throats already."

Toran knew that he was right; the tensions among the Masters could be cut with a knife. Yet the idea of Storm Herald fighting Storm Herald was difficult to contemplate, they were trained and indoctrinated to protect each other. Toran could imagine nothing that could break that bond, no matter how severe their political differences.

Toran said, "If nothing else we can rely on the fact that we are Brothers, nobody wants to be known as a kin-slayer."

Yet Jediah spat, "Mylos didn't think the same."

Toran felt his gore rise at that, Sergeant Mylos had been a bitter and twisted soul, one that had fallen into perfidy. In the middle of the Phage crisis he had come after Toran with a gun in hand and the Captain had been forced to cut him down. Toran felt no shame for the deed, Mylos had been a Traitor and a Heretic, yet he had claimed to be acting under orders from Lessall and Samect.

Toran's anger rose and he said, "Do not talk of that cur; he cast himself out of the Storm Heralds with his treacherous deeds. His name was stricken from the Scrolls of Honour."

Novak however said, "Hold on, I've been thinking. Why aren't we talking about it, I mean we do have your armour's logs. Your Machine Spirit heard Mylos confessing to the deed, if we took that to the Chapter it would shame Lessall and Samect. We could overturn their schemes in a heartbeat."

That had actually not occurred to Toran and he blinked in surprise but Persion rebuffed the idea by saying, "Don't try to act smart, it doesn't suit you. Mylos was always bitter and held a grudge; nobody would believe a word he uttered. The Masters would deny everything and we'd look like fools for trying to smear their names."

Novak protested, "But…."

Furion cut him off saying, "The ramblings of one diseased and addled traitor are of no worth, the Chapter would not accept such talk. Without something truly damning to implicate the Emperor-Worshippers, we are back to square one."

Bylan asked, "+So what are we going to do about this situation?+"

Toran answered, "I have spoken to the Sergeants individually, all know to be on guard. Third Company shall remain in the barracks for now and I have placed a constant guard upon the doors."

Persion looked concerned by that and inquired, "What exactly are we expecting to happen?"

Toran calmed him by saying, "I am not expecting the Emperor-Worshippers to come and kick down our door, all guns blazing. They are more subtle than that, they seek to undermine Chapter Master Gorgall and force him to accept their views. We have to be equally subtle and frustrate their efforts in the council debates."

Jediah growled, "Debate and politics, Astartes are not made for such arenas. Give me a foe to fight any day."

Toran fought the urge to roll his one organic eye and stated, "There is a strategic conference coming up and have to be ready. Chapter Master Gorgall wants me to work on rebuilding alliances with our friends and outmanoeuvring the Emperor-Worshippers. We need to be proactive and come out of this conference with the first assignments, to claim the early victories before Lessall's followers can snatch all the glory. If we can get out into the galaxy and demonstrate our worth then we can show the Chapter that our way is right."

Furion looked thoughtful and said, "What we really need is a common enemy to unite against."

"Exactly," Toran said in agreement, "A righteous war will remind everybody that we are all Storm Heralds. First we claim a few easy victories, to solidify our position, then we find a big war to unite us once more. We can set this Chapter back on the right path if we are bold and aggressive."

Bylan proclaimed, "+You can count on us!+"

Persion however looked doubtful and said, "This isn't going to be as easy as you say, Lessall's got half the Captains in his pocket. They will all want to snatch the glory, we can't outfox them all."

Furion said, "Gorgall is isolated and alone. Lessall has him besieged on all sides, without a tiebreaker this notion will never work."

"Worry not, I have a plan," Toran declared confidently, "There is someone who can sort all this out easily, someone who even Samect and Lessall and all their Captains cannot stand against."

Furion looked at the Captain and gasped, "You don't mean…"

Toran smiled and said, "I am going to go and talk with Honourable Ajax."

"Honourable Ajax," Novak muttered sarcastically, "Yes, I'm sure he knows how to be subtle."

Toran fixed the Champion with a glare and declared, "Trust me; Ajax will set this Chapter back on the right path. With Ajax on our side, what could possibly go wrong?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Domus Discordia Chapter 7**

"What do you mean you can't help us?!" Toran cried in confused dismay. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, the statement simply refusing to sink in.

"ARE YOUR EARS DEFECTIVE?" Ajax queried at the Captain's response, his mechanical limbs and armoured sarcophagus looming over his visitors and casting them into shadow.

Toran looked at the war machine, taking in the vast spread of his reinforced body, the thick pillars of his legs and the sensor dome that vaguely resembled a head. Ajax was a Contemptor pattern Dreadnought, the only one of his kind in the Storm Heralds Chapter. He was a far more advanced design than his kindred, who were slumbering in their stasis-crypts. His body was wrought with technologies long since forgotten in the superstitious Imperium. He was a wonder from a lost age and the sight of him inspired awe and fear in equal measure.

Yet all that was nothing compared to what resided within his Sarcophagus. Bound within this shell of gears and armour were the remaining scraps of a warrior who was five thousand years old. He had been there at the Storm Herald's founding and had seen and done more than anyone else could imagine. Ajax was a living memorial to the Chapter's greatest battles, the walking embodiment of all their achievements.

Toran had fought alongside Ajax on occasions and been astonished by his power and zeal, the dauntless fervour he displayed. He still bore the terrible wounds from their adventures, the ruin of his assault cannon and the tears on his sarcophagus. Ajax was also vehemently opposed to the practice of Emperor-Worship, which was why Toran had been counting on him to speak out in favour of Gorgall.

Toran looked up at Ajax and said in confusion, "I don't understand, why can't you intervene?"

Ajax rumbled in response, "THE DEBATING CHAMBER IS NOT MY FORTE, MY TALENTS LIE IN MAKING THINGS EXPLODE."

Toran shook his head and said, "But surely a word from you could put Lessall and Samect in their place. You could make them reconsider their position."

Ajax growled, "IF YOU PUT THOSE TWO IN A ROOM WITH ME THERE SHALL NOT BE MUCH LEFT OF THEM TO RECONSIDER ANYTHING."

A new voice arose; it was Captain Phalros who had joined Toran in his attempt to persuade Ajax to join their cause. Phalros probed, "But don't you oppose the Emperor-Worship?"

"OF COURSE I DO, IT IS AN ABOMINATION," Ajax blared, "THEY SPIT UPON EVERYTHING THE EMPEROR STOOD FOR."

Toran was really confused now and said, "Then why won't you intervene?"

Ajax replied, "I HAVE SEEN THE DIVISIONS IN OUR CHAPTER, THIS IS NO MERE ABBERATION TO BE STAMPED OUT. THE GULFS BETWEEN BROTHERS ARE DEEP AND PAINFUL AND MY INTERVENTION COULD ONLY MAKE THEM WORSE. I CANNOT UNITE US, ONLY DIVIDE US FURTHER. ONLY THE LIVING CAN LEAD THE LIVING, I AM COUNTING ON YOU TO FIND A WAY."

Phalros looked concerned and said, "Without you, I am not sure that it can be done."

Ajax didn't answer straight away but turned his torso to gaze out over the horizon. The three of them were stood upon a reinforced bastion, situated on a rocky prominence. Behind them was an open Adamantium door, large enough for a Warhound Titan to walk under. This was the main entrance to the Grand Processional, that great corridor that stretched for miles under the Fortress-Monastery, leading up to the Techmarine's Forges.

This lay behind them but before them lay the ocean, an endless blue, shimmering in the dying light. The air was sharp with the tang of brine and the noise of waves crashing upon the shore filled the whole world. On the horizon was the dark smudge of approaching clouds, that great world-girdling typhoon that dwelt upon the cusp of day and night. The Emperor's Storm, which on this slowly rotating world came as regular as clockwork.

Ajax looked out upon the ocean and said, "I HAD NEVER SEEN THE OCEAN UNTIL I CAME TO THIS WORLD, THERE WAS NO OPEN WATER ON TERRA, WHERE I WAS BORN. WHEN WE CAME TO TAKE THIS WORLD FOR OUR OWN I WAS DAZZLED BY IT. The oceans called to me, they call me still."

Phalros frowned and looked to speak but Toran caught his eye and fractionally shook his head. Ajax had been acting odd for a while now, frequently drifting off topic and letting his voice stop booming. The Captain had thought it was a fault in the vox-speaker until he realised the cause wasn't to be found in the machine but in the man. Something was occurring within that shell of armour and gears and Toran didn't know what it was.

Ajax was still speaking, "I could walk out there right now and just let the waves wash over me. No more strife, no more expectations, no more Ajax."

Toran dared to say, "Honourable Brother?"

"What does the ocean smell like… I can no longer remember," Ajax said distantly, "It all slips away, smells, tastes, the kick of a Bolter in my grip. I can no longer remember the feeling of air in my lungs or the sensation of food on my tongue. I cannot even recall the faces of my friends and squadmates, dead for so long that not even dust remains. The ocean calls me but so too does war, I am surrounded by children and how can I rest when they still need me?"

Toran repeated louder, "Honourable Brother!"

Ajax turned his torso fractionally and said, "Have the Tyranids have come already, do we sail for Angle's Redoubt?"

Toran blinked and said, "Ajax, we are talking about the Emperor Worshipers."

There was a long pause and Ajax stood absolutely still then he boomed, "IT IS AN ABOMINATION. TELL CHAPTER MASTER TRAGO THAT HE MUST STAMP IT OUT OR I WILL DO IT FOR HIM."

Phalros raised his voice and called, "We are asking you to speak out at Chapter Master Gorgall's conference, to support him publically."

"GORGALL IS CHAPTER MASTER, YES OF COURSE HE IS… I KNEW THAT," Ajax growled, "BUT THE LIVING SHOULD BE LED BY THE LIVING, I AM COUNTING ON YOU TO FIND A WAY. I MYSELF MUST SLEEP, I HAVE BEEN OUT OF MY STASIS-CRYPT FOR FAR TOO LONG."

Toran spied a gaggle of serf-artisans emerging from the Grand Processional, coming to take Ajax away to his rest. The Captain desperately tried attempted one last appeal, "But Ajax, we need you."

Ajax wasn't listening but instead gazing at the approaching serfs as he said, "I WILL ALWAYS BE THERE WHEN I AM NEEDED MOST. WHEN THE DRUMS OF WAR SOUND, SEEK ME OUT, BUT UNTIL THEN I MUST SLEEP."

Toran felt disappointment filling his soul and could only watch as the Dreadnought set off, walking towards the waiting serfs. They gathered around him, fussing over his wounds before leading him towards the Grand Processional. Ajax paused however for a second before entering and boomed, "TELL CHAPTER MASTER TRAGO THAT HE MUST PUT A STOP TO THIS ABOMINATION OR I WILL DO IT FOR HIM."

Then he was gone, marching away towards his Stasis-crypt and his rest. Toran watched the Dreadnought disappear and said in dismay, "I don't believe it."

Phalros sighed and said, "I should have expected this, I've seen it before."

Toran was surprised and turned to his fellow Captain saying, "You have?"

Phalros nodded and explained, "There is a reason that we only call upon the Dreadnoughts when we march to war. They need the fire of it, the anger and the passion to drive them on. Hatred, it focusses them and sustains them through the centuries, it gives them a reason to keep living. But without that fire they suffer, the passage of time wears at them in a way we cannot grasp. They need to sleep between wars, to preserve what little remains of their minds."

Toran lowered his gaze and said, "Ajax has always been so mighty and relentless, the one immovable point in our lives. It's hard to imagine him as anything else, to remember that there is a Brother within that armoured shell."

Phalros was glum as he said, "You should have heard the Venerable Temeraire when they came for him. He was raving about the war in the Tannhauser Gate, though it has been over for eighteen centuries. And Dreadnought Bellerophon, they had to deactivate his weapons systems before it was safe to drag him away. Time: it is the one foe Dreadnoughts cannot defeat."

Toran didn't know what to say save, "Ajax has abandoned us."

"Sometimes I forget you are still young, that you've only been a Captain for a decade or so," Phalros said, "When we need Ajax most he will return, when war calls and the blood is in the air he will be there. As a Captain it is up to you to find a fire to stir his soul, find a reason for him to fight and he will be as he was. Ajax will never turn his back on those who need him, but respect his needs in turn. He has done more for this Chapter than anyone else, he has earned his rest."

"So what do we do without him?" Toran inquired.

"The situation is not totally hopeless," Phalros said, "We can still attempt to sway those who stand aside."

Toran swallowed nervously and said, "The Librarians?"

"Absolutely not," Phalros uttered, "Best to leave the Warp out of this, the last thing we want is to throw fuel on that fire."

Toran was relieved, he had fought alongside Librarians before but the dread of the Warp was deeply ingrained. Despite his trust and respect for the Librarians as individuals the Imperium instilled a wariness of the Warp as a matter of gospel and such prejudice lingered a long time. Toran mentally flicked through the list of their allies and rivals then said, "Tenth Captain Judio and Seventh Captain Maxitio."

"Exactly," Phalros stated, "We must bring them back onto our side."

Toran said, "We should go see them directly."

However Phalros corrected him, "Actually, I was thinking that you could go speak to Maxitio alone."

Toran scowled and said, "Just what happened between you two?"

"A lot," Phalros sighed, "Maxitio and I disagreed on how to proceed and the argument got bitter. I wanted Gorgall to get practical, to take steps to isolate Lessall. I even suggested sending him back to the Deathwatch, as soon as the storms cleared that is. But Maxitio, he is too proud and clings too rigidly to the Codex for his own good. He refuses to countenance anything he sees as less than honourable."

"So why send me?" Toran inquired, "I hardly have a reputation for being a rigid adherent to the Codex."

"True you do tend to innovate," Phalros said, "But strangely you have always been honourable about it. You refuse to go back on your word once given and have a knack for making alliances with outsiders. Maxitio knows this, he may respect you more than he does me."

Toran accepted this and said, "And what will you be doing?"

Phalros said, "I will go talk to Judio and the Scouts, they might be more receptive now the Chapter is not trapped here anymore. Judio must know that he needs to make friends, now we must fight together once more."

"Very well," Toran said in agreement, "Let us go and see what can be done."

With that the two Captains set off, heading in different directions, seeking out their different goals. Yet little did they know that they were being watched by unfriendly eyes. From the entrance to the Grand Processional a single serf emerged, looking furtively about.

He checked that the Captains were gone and that nobody was listening then he raised a vox-bead to his mouth and hissed, "Master Lessall, it is done. Honourable Ajax is on his way to the crypts and he will soon be asleep. The way is clear; with Ajax gone there are no impediments to your plan anymore."


	8. Chapter 8

**Domus Discordia Chapter8**

"Help me..." a feeble voice squeaked, "It hurts.."

Apothecary Memnos ignored the plea as he continued working on a Logic-Engine. He was standing within the confines of the secret Apothecarion, checking the progress of the next batch of specimens in the visionary project. He had quickly caught up with the research but had been disappointed by the progress made in his absence. Despite all the efforts of the Apothecaries the adjusted gene-seed remained highly unstable, liable to degenerate spontaneously causing fever, sickness, rampant mutation and death among the specimens. Memnos had originally estimated their fatality rate to be ninety-nine percent, but after reviewing the Machine Spirit's records he was realising that he had badly underestimated this.

"Is it supposed to hurt so much..." the subject whimpered.

Memnos tuned it out as he gazed at the streams of data passing in the Hololithic projection before him but Apothecary Korios turned from his own post and snarled, "Quiet!"

"Please, make it stop..." the subject wept.

Korios lashed out, striking the subject across the face with the back of an armoured gauntlet and he shouted, "Be silent!"

Memnos didn't even look around but he said, "Physical contact with the specimens is not advised, it biases our results."

As the subject started to cry Korios spat, "Why do they moan so, what is the point of it?"

Memnos spared a glance over the ten med-slabs, each one bearing a whimpering and crying subject. These had been selected as the optimal candidates for the visionary project, chosen from the crowds of aspirants who regularly came to the Chapter with the hopes of ascending to the ranks of the Astartes. These boys had been deemed to be most receptive to the implantation procedures but the results were falling far short of expectations.

Memnos commented, "The adjusted gene-seed is sub-optimal. The internal deformities are causing physical trauma, far beyond that of our regular stocks. The levels of pain and shock are many times those a conventional Neophyte endures. This adjusted Gene-seed is killing them."

Korios stared at the line of suffering boys and growled, "I find myself hating them, their weakness and fragility. They moan all night and all day, driving me insane."

Memnos stated coolly, "Hatred is redundant, it impairs clinical thinking. You should cultivate a clinical detachment, as I do. See them as specimens, nothing more. "

Korios muttered, "Why can't they just die quietly?"

Memnos looked over and said, "If the noise bothers you perhaps you should apply a pain-balm."

Korios shook his head and said, "I wouldn't waste the drugs, they're not worth it."

Memnos turned back to his task, shifting and collating the records. It was slow work, made more cumbersome by the bulk of his armour. He typically did not favour wearing it while conducting research but Captain Toran had insisted and Memnos was not blind to the tensions all around.

Korios glanced over and said, "What are you working on anyway?"

Memnos answered, "The Phage, I learned much from how it targeted our specific Gene-seed, it was a remarkable piece of work. I was hoping what I had discovered would improve our labour here but it hasn't, if anything it is actually lowering our success rates. I don't understand why, so I am trying to find flaws in the gene sequence."

"That's like looking for a rogue asteroid in an uncharted stellar system," Korios stated shaking his head, "I would suggest praying for a miracle but I doubt the Divine Emperor is in a generous mood today."

Memnos rolled his eyes at that for didn't understand the mentality of his Brothers regarding the Emperor-Worship. All Astartes revered the Emperor but extending that into outright worship baffled him. It made no difference in their daily lives and Memnos did not believe that any Divine being would hold back bolt-rounds from killing him or blast his foes with heavenly fire. Memnos was starting to suspect that the whole issue was nothing but a false flag, a mere banner to cover political grievances. He was well aware that Master Lessall despised Chapter Master Gorgall's moderation and co-operation with Imperial authorities. The Chief Apothecary had seen first-hand the weakness and corruption of the Imperium when he served in the Death Watch and he had returned with the conviction that the Astartes should be leading humanity.

The thought of Lessall distracted Memnos and he accidentally tripped the wrong rune, sending his search into a defunct data-stack. Memnos sighed and berated himself for his carelessness but then his eye caught on something. He frowned and checked what he was seeing but he was puzzled as he realised it was an active dossier in a supposedly closed Data-archive. Mistakes like this happened occasionally but this dossier was sealed. No, not sealed but deliberately hidden, where no one outside the Apothecaries would think to look.

Memnos glanced over at Korios and said, "I need to go check something in the Laboratorium."

Korios grunted and kept working at his own Logic-Engine as Memnos walked off. The Apothecary left the room and the weeping subjects as he headed deeper into the secret Apothecarion. Furtively he entered a hermetically sealed chamber, filled with strange devices and bubbling chemicals. This was where the mysterious work of the visionary project took place, where potent strange elixirs and tailored retroviruses were applied to alter the gene-seed. As such it was also filled with devotional images, shrines to the Emperor and cyber-cherubs that flapped overhead, filling the air with looped prayers and hymnals.

Memnos took care not to jostle anything, these chemicals and amino-acids were extremely flammable and dangerous, even to an Astartes. Many held Astartes were immune to all diseases or poisons but as an Apothecary Memnos was actuality aware of how hollow a boast that was. Yes, Space Marines were tough but there were some things even they couldn't fight. Even some poisons could kill if applied in large enough doses. Though anyone caught trying to poison a Space Marine probably wouldn't live long enough to finish the job.

Memnos made his way to a corner, where another logic engine was situated and he muttered the chant of awakening as he roused its spirit. Memnos hurriedly brought up the aberrant data and peered over it. The dossier was locked but Memnos had been an Apothecary for a long time and he knew his way around a recalcitrant Machine Spirit.

Memnos keyed in a sequence of runes, one he wasn't supposed to know, smirking as the data unfolded, yet what he saw made him frown. It appeared to be a log of the Chief Apothecary leaving Lujan II, departing for a brief visit to Tectum. Now Memnos was really confused, why go to all the trouble of hiding this?

There was an audio-pict recording attached but it was heavily sealed. Memnos tried his trick again but nothing happened. The Apothecary grimaced but wasn't about to give up. He gave it a moment's thought, then tried another rune sequence, one he had seen Brother Persion use when he was poking his nose into places where he wasn't welcome. After a moment the Machine Spirit bestowed him with the right to look at the dossier, but not to copy it.

Memnos leaned in and saw it was an armour log, one taken from the perspective of a Space Marine. He peered at it and saw that the identifier marks were from Lessall's plate, this was the Chief Apothecary's own log. Memnos stared at what he was seeing, trying to understand what was going on and whom Lessall was talking to. Memnos started as he recognised the man Lessall was meeting, Inquisitor Zerban, as untrustworthy and devious a snake as ever slithered in the galaxy. But it was what he heard that stunned and horrified him.

Treachery, deceit and an assassination plot against the Chapter Master.

Memnos stepped back in shock and dismay, his mind reeling at the discovery. His hand went to his mouth and he gasped, "No, no, no, it can't be…"

"But it is," came the voice of Korios.

Memnos spun about and was shocked to see his fellow Apothecary standing at the door, watching him. Memnos's eyes flashed down and he saw the knife in Korios' hand, held in a manner that indicated he was prepared to use it. A thousand thoughts flashed through Memnos' mind, a million implications but he had no time to be stupefied.

Danger threatened and Memnos' Transhuman mind, conditioned and honed for any situation, instantly processed the situation. Point: he was facing a hostile Astartes in armour, intending him violence. Point: they were surrounded by volatile chemicals, any stray fire could set off an explosion, bolt pistols were out of the question. Point: Korios was too low in the hierarchy to act without authorisation; he couldn't be working alone.

Memnos stepped behind a table, keeping the bubbling chemicals between them and whispered, "Lessall… he plots treason, he conspires to end Gorgall's life."

Korios snorted as he circled around, "Not just him, we all want that spineless weakling dead."

"How many of you are involved with this conspiracy?" Memnos gasped, "Who else is in on it?"

"Who isn't?!" Korios snarled, "We have eyes everywhere. Knives waiting in every shadow, nobody is beyond our reach."

Memnos glanced at the door but it was too far away. Stalling for time he said, " Lessall, he has been corrupted by Chaos, he serves the Dark Gods!"

"Chaos?!" Korios laughed, "Chaos has nothing to do with this, we do not need that filth to take our rightful lordship over the masses. Terra has fallen, now the galaxy belongs to the Astartes!"

"This is Heresy," Memnos spat.

"Typical, we knew you didn't have the spine for this," Korios snarled, "Your death has already been ordained. We had it all planned out, a convenient accident was waiting for you. We were supposed to wait for Honourable Ajax to get out of the way but you just had to go and mess that…"

Suddenly Memnos' hand blurred, catching a vial of acid and hurling it at Korios. The Apothecary reacted with Transhuman speed, hand flashing out to intercept the projectile but the beaker hit his palm and shattered, spraying acid into his face. Korios grunted as the chemicals burned into his eyes, blinding him and he was unable to resist as Memnos vaulted the table to tackle him.

Despite his treachery Korios remained a Space Marine, even when blind his knife flashed out, scoring a bloody cut across Memnos' cheek. Memnos however bore Korios over and as he did so he raised the bulky form of his Narthecium, the Apothecaries' signature tool, designed to drill through Ceramite and reinforce bone. Korios struggled and kicked out but Memnos was relentless and drove the end of his Narthecium into the side of the skull. Then he triggered the drill bit, pushing the burrowing point right through the thick skull into the braincase beyond.

Korios thrashed wildly, blood and brains spraying everywhere, but then he fell limp as death claimed him. Silence fell and Memnos lay still, panting in shock. Slowly he pulled his Narthecium away, leaving Korios' body upon the ground. Memnos sat up; the enormity of what he had done filling him. He had killed another Storm Herald, someone he had known for decades. The horror of it nearly overwhelmed him and instinctively he reached for his vox.

With a snarl Memnos slammed his hand down and as he did so he shoved his emotions into a mental box. He needed to think clinically here, he needed to be detached. Meticulously Memnos processed the situation, with all the detachment he would any clinical puzzle. Point: Memnos was surrounded by a murderous conspiracy; there was no telling who was involved. Point: he couldn't trust anybody, not even his comrades in Third Company, anybody could be in on it. Point: he had to disappear, he needed to vanish completely.

Memnos grabbed the nearest table and upended the contents, pouring flammable liquids all over Korios' corpse. He moved to the door then turned and pulled a flare from his belt before tossing it back into the room. The chemicals whooshed as they ignited and Cyber-Cherubs started to blare alarms but Memnos was already retreating. The distraction wouldn't buy him long, even a cursory examination of the corpse would reveal Korios hadn't been killed by fire, but it would buy him enough time to disappear.

As the flames roared behind him Memnos ran from the Apothecarion and headed down into the bowels of the Fortress-Monastery, physically ripping out his vox so the conspirators couldn't track him. There was only one man he could trust now: he had to reach Chapter Master Gorgall before it was too late.


	9. Chapter 9

**Domus Discordia Chapter 9**

Above the island home of the Storm Heralds the Emperor's Storm raged, battering at the bastions and fortifications. Wind, rain and lightning hammered down in a constant torrent, accompanied by the noise of thunder and crashing waves. It was potent and it was pure, a winnowing away of all that was weak or diffident. It was the Emperor's judgement upon the impure or so the people of Lujan II fervently believed. This time though it could not touch the Storm Heralds for they were bunkered down, deep within their fortifications. They hid below the ground, safe behind storm shutters and closed hatches. Staying inside their barracks they ignored the thunder, shutting out its bellowing fury.

Walking deep underground Captain Toran could not help but find that fact disturbing. The Storm Heralds should not hide from the tempest, nor the Emperor's judgement, they should embrace it. It was the Chapter's most holy rite to stand on the battlements and face the unleashed fury of the storm, letting it test their strength and purity. Toran himself had weathered the tempest more times than he could count and he had always found it uplifting and edifying. It was a reminder of the importance of focussing on the now and casting away all that was impure and unnecessary about oneself.

To hide away deep underground felt fundamentally wrong, it was against the principles of the Storm Heralds. He thought that this must be a sign of how bad things had become in this Chapter. Their Brotherhood had become hollow and decayed, like a rotten tooth. Without that Brotherhood, without trust, they were nothing and he had to do something to change that. The future of the Chapter hung in the balance and everything rested on his success.

Toran was making his way west, heading towards the barracks of Seventh Company. He had passed gaggles of serfs, racing about on their duties but had seen no sign of any Initiates. He was troubled by this, despite their differences the squads of various Companies had always passed each other without rancour. The idea that the Chapter was split up into feuding camps saddened him to the core.

Toran passed into a grand atrium, roofed with an armourglass dome and lined with heroic statues of dead heroes. They were works of surpassing art, almost lifelike, all in noble poses with bolters held in firm and helms staring at the stormy sky. Toran was halfway across the atrium when he was surprised by a voice. It was an echoing boom, the voice of a Transhuman and it shouted, "That's far enough!"

Toran froze, hands well clear of his weapons and called out, "Who goes there?"

From behind a statue a warrior stepped out, a sergeant by his markings and he held up a bolter as he growled, "I'm the one asking the questions."

Toran looked at him and said, "Sergeant, you appear to be pointing a weapon at a Captain."

The Sergeant growled, "Not my Captain."

Toran sensed he wasn't welcome and inquired, "What is your name Brother?"

The Sergeant paused but then begrudgingly answered, "Sergeant Cyvo."

Toran nodded and said, "Well Cyvo, be so good as to contact Captain Maxitio and inform him that Captain Toran is here to see him."

Cyvo growled, "You don't get to make demands here, I'm the one with the bolter."

Toran felt his pride being pricked and said, "You wish to test yourself against a Captain?"

Cyvo snorted, "One Captain, all alone."

"As are you," Toran countered.

Suddenly there was a harsh grinding noise and Toran was startled when his augmetic eye detected the unmistakable heat surge of power armour springing to life. His head snapped around as nine of the statues unexpectedly began to move, leaping from their pedestals to land with thuds of heavy boots. They were disguises, Toran realised, a whole squad had smeared their plate's colours with stone dust and replaced the statues entirely.

Toran found himself standing the middle of a ring of bolters and raised his hands to show he was no threat. Cyvo grinned and said, "Not so alone after all."

"My congratulations on a perfect ambush," Toran said, "Now can we dispense with the idle threats and get serious?"

"Nothing idle about this," Cyvo growled.

Toran sensed this was going to end badly and decided to use his trump card. He twisted his hip, not an easy feat in power armour, and displayed his Relic blade in its scabbard. He saw Cyvo's eyes flash down and Toran said, "Do you know what this is?"

Cyvo swallowed in trepidation, there was not a Storm Herald alive who would not recognise the Sword of Thiel, that legendary relic which had been passed down hand-to-hand since their founding. Cyvo sounded uncertain as he said, "I do."

Toran declared firmly and with total confidence of being obeyed, "Then you know the legacy I bear cannot be waylaid and you will summon Maxitio."

Cyvo hesitated but then nodded and began speaking into his vox. Toran meanwhile stood quietly, trying not to feel like a wretch. He didn't like using the reputation of the sword so, it smacked of the mystical doggerel he was dedicated to ending. Still he had to admit that on more than one occasion it had been useful and he had never been above using a bit of theatre to get his way.

After a few minutes Toran heard the crump of armoured boots, followed by the unmistakable form of Seventh Captain Maxitio arriving. He was a classic example of a veteran Space Marine, precise and exact in every detail from his weathered face and cropped hair to the Codex perfect heraldry on his plate. Maxitio boasted the rare and potent Mark VIII armour; with its raised gorget and reinforced cabling it was an enhancement of Toran's own Mark VII version. In Maxitio's hand was a Thunder hammer, its golden crown square on one side and the reverse formed into a shining eagle's head.

Maxitio strode in and saw Toran standing there. The Seventh Captain came to stand before Toran and said, "So, I was wondering when you would come to see me."

Toran bowed in respect and said, "Captain Maxitio, I am honoured."

Maxitio looked about and said, "You came alone, that is either extremely brave or foolishly reckless."

Toran replied, "I did not wish to seem aggressive, a guard would look hostile. Speaking of which…"

"Ah yes," Maxitio said, "Cyvo, you are dismissed."

As the Sergeant and his squad marched out Toran said, "A smart Marine there but that ambush, I don't recall ever reading of that one in the Codex Astartes."

Maxitio looked a little bit embarrassed and explained, "We've had to learn flexibility these last few years, I took a page from your book and innovated."

Toran nodded and said, "I understand, times have been hard."

Maxitio muttered, "You have no idea."

Toran let that pass and said, "Thankfully the time of isolation has ended, we march to war once more and Chapter Master Gorgall calls for your aid."

Maxitio snorted, "Gorgall and that Phalros, always plotting something. I wash my hands of their base schemes."

Toran didn't like the way that sounded and pressed, "He remains Chapter Master and we are sworn to obey him."

Maxitio eyed him and said, "Do you even know how he claimed the seat of the Chapter Masters?"

Toran blinked at the non-sequitur and said, "I don't follow…"

"Of course not, you weren't even born then," Maxitio stated, "You've never known another Chapter Master, you think that he ascended because he was the most worthy. Well I tell you it wasn't nearly that simple, it was bitter and hotly contested, a dispute between myself and the late Athead. I had the backing of more Captains but Lessall and Samect supported Athead and their influence split the vote. The infighting and muck slinging got vicious, everybody was backstabbing each other. In the end Chief Librarian Echeb presented a third candidate: Gorgall. Turns out he was the only person both sides could stomach."

Toran was surprised and said, "You say he is not Chapter Master because anybody loved him the most but because nobody hated him enough?"

"More like he let everybody else shoot each other down, then stepped out of cover and proclaimed himself the victor," Maxitio spat, "Athead got made First Captain as a consolation, I got relegated to the Reserve Companies."

Toran shook his head and said, "Well Lessall and Samect are not content with Gorgall anymore. They seek to outmanoeuvre Gorgall, in a direct attempt to seize power."

"I am well aware of that," Maxitio stated.

Toran asked, "Did you know they have four Captains supporting them,"

"And how does Gorgall know this?" Maxitio queried.

"Well… we have a friend among their camp," Toran confessed.

"Spies and double-agents," Maxitio spat, "More disgraceful acts, more intrigue. Gorgall is no better than Lessall and Samect. Seventh Company will not sully itself with such dishonour."

Toran saw this was going badly and said, "But Lessall and Samect have Jossat, Tygra, Hakulo and Erathor on their side."

Maxitio growled with a spark of anger, "Jossat was always ambitious, he had dreams of being the Chapter Master himself but he was far too junior at the time. Tygra follows in his wake, drooling at the thought of being his First Captain. As for Hakulo, he is a savage, not an honourable bone in his body."

"And Erathor," Toran encouraged him, "That arrogant cur."

Maxitio fixed him with a stare and said, "Erathor is a fine Captain, proud and zealous. You don't like him because he is willing to spend the lives of his men but I have seen him in action, he never asks them to take any risk that he would not. In fact I am amazed he has any truck with the Emperor-Worshippers at all."

Toran was put back and said, "I apologise for my outburst, I spoke hastily."

"Everything you do is hasty," Maxitio sneered, "You are not going to convince me with clever words and honeyed lies. Lessall and Samect have both tried the same and frankly they are a lot better at it than you are."

Toran lowered his head and said, "I see, were the situation different I may even agree with your stance. I have no clever arguments for you, no bribes or leverage to exploit. None of my words can sway you, so all I can do is say that we need you. I stand here and ask for your help and for your trust."

Maxitio looked surprised and said, "You're asking for my help, just like that? Nobody else has ever thought to simply ask me outright."

Toran said nothing as Maxitio thought it over. The Seventh Captain was silent for a moment then he drew in a breath and said, "From anyone else I would take that as a sly manipulation but I remember when you returned from that Phage incident and you were asked a question…"

Toran caught the hint and said, "They asked me why I didn't double-cross our allies and take what we wanted, all for ourselves. My answer was, because I gave them my word."

Maxitio nodded and said, "You are overly clever but always honourable and sometimes rather naive. I cannot think of a single time when you have shown anything other than nobility in your actions. Must be that Furion's influence, I said at the time it was a mistake kicking him out of the Chaplaincy. I've never seen such a pillar of moral strength, before or since."

Toran felt the stirrings of hope and asked, "Then I can count on you?"

Maxitio turned to face him and said, "Tell Gorgall that I shall attend this conference and play my part. But do not expect me to sit next to him, or Phalros."

Toran felt a rush of relief and said, "You have my thanks, Brother."

Maxitio said, "Don't thank me yet, we still have to win this argument. What exactly is the plan?"

Eagerly Toran began to explain how they needed the conference to go and what role Maxitio was to play. As he elaborated Toran felt hope kindle within him, at last something was going his way. For the first time since he came home he felt confident that the Storm Heralds were going to restore their Brotherhood and forge an honourable future as a united Chapter.

It was a thought he would come to bitterly rue in the coming days.


	10. Chapter 10

**Domus Discordia Chapter 10**

The grand council chamber was a place where history had been written, where the fates of trillions were routinely debated and decided. The building was arranged into a T-shape, with a long nave that stretched away into the distance. The marble walls were lined with stained glass windows, beyond which could be seen the cold, starry night sky. One end of the nave boasted massively reinforced doors, like all Astartes constructions they were designed to hold off an army. The other end, where the nave met the cross-wings, was set under an arched dome supported by fluted columns.

Under that dome were a ring of seats, the chairs of the Storm Herald's Masters. Here they would debate and discuss the most important actions of their Chapter, though the final decision would always rest with the Chapter Master. Astartes were warriors not politicians, orders were to be obeyed not questioned, or so the theory went. Recent events had thrown all that into doubt, now the smallest thing would have to be agreed upon before action could be taken.

All this went through Toran's mind as he walked into the grand council chamber, passing by the reinforced doors. He was walking calmly at a measured pace, his armour purring to itself as he slowly proceeded. With him were Ninth Captain Phalros and Chapter Master Gorgall, entering the chamber as one to show their solidarity. They were surrounded by Honour Guards, even now no chances were being taken.

Toran peered ahead and saw some of the Masters had already assembled, Chief Librarian Echeb and Seventh Captain Maxitio, waiting patiently. The chairs of the Second and First Captains were shrouded, their posts unfilled, the First Company now reported to Gorgall directly. The Techmarines had refused to attend, saying they would respect the outcome regardless. In other words they were keeping themselves out of the coming political wrangling. The last officer present was Tenth Captain Judio, bearing a huge Powerfist. He wasn't looking at the approaching Chapter Master and Toran knew that Phalros' own attempts to sway him hadn't been nearly as successful as Toran's meeting with Maxitio.

Toran noticed that Lessall and his followers hadn't arrived yet, whereas tradition dictated the Chapter Master should arrive last. A not-so-subtle snub before the talk had even begun. Gorgall led to their chairs and they settled down, waiting patiently, they weren't about to let Lessall and Samect upset them.

Minutes dragged by in silence and Toran knew this was a deliberate attempt to wrong-foot them. Then at last he heard the sounds of approaching boots. Through the doors came Lessall and Samect, in their glorious armour. With them came four Captains, equally glorious in raiment and weaponry. To the right was Fourth Captain Jossat, with a double-headed axe at his belt. Besides him was Fifth Captain Tygra, bearing an Eviscerator across his back, the weapon of an honourless cur. To the left was Sixth Captain Erathor, looking as arrogant as ever, in Toran's opinion. He bore twin lighting claws, currently retracted, a far too beautiful pair of weapons for the likes of him. Last was Hakulo with a savage sneer upon his face and a long power spear in hand, stained with the blood of heretics.

These were the heart of the Emperor-Worshippers cause and yet Toran knew that one of them wasn't what he seemed, someone in that group was secretly passing messages to Gorgall. Who was it, Toran wondered. Jossat's ambition had driven him to make mistakes in the past but his successes eclipsed his errors. Tygra was cunning and sly, if anyone could keep up a façade it would be him. Erathor perhaps but Toran didn't believe anyone could fake such arrogance and Hakulo was a savage, no subtly at all to him.

As the Emperor-Worshippers sat down in their chairs Gorgall didn't rise to greet them, a subtle snub of his own. Once everybody was settled Gorgall spread his hands and said, "Welcome Brother-Captains and Masters to the first strategic conference since the Noctis Aeterna swept over us. Harsh times we have seen and harsh words we have exchanged. Yet now we can celebrate the unexpected return of Third Company and we are united once more."

Lessall started his jockeying by saying, "Much good it does us, for years we've cooped up here and you have done nothing!"

Gorgall let that pass and said, "The time for petty grudges is past, let us look to the future. Echeb, if you will."

The Chief Librarian pressed a rune on his chair, activating an overhead Hololithic projection of the galaxy. As the only truly neutral party here Echeb began the briefing, "As you have read in the briefing packets I sent you all, the galaxy is at war. Chaos is in the ascendant and the Imperium is hard pressed. Imperial worlds fall, Chaos incursions erupt everywhere and humanity's armies either retreat or die where they stand. The northern half of the galaxy has been split off by this, 'Cicatrix Maeldictum' creating what is being called the Imperium Nihilus."

Tenth Captain Judio leaned in and asked, "What of Terra?"

Echeb answered, "Few reports and much confusion. The High Lords live, this we know and they are preparing a response, a new Crusade. There is talk of a new 'Lord Commander of the Imperium', but we aren't sure who it is."

"Who cares?" Jossat sneered, "What does it matter if they promote a stuffed-up General, probably some pompous blow-hard who knows more about table manners than handling his weapons."

Lessall agreed with him, "Politicians and clerks, their weakness has plunged the Imperium into ruin. We should not listen to them."

Phalros angrily barked, "They remain the Emperor's appointed governors!"

Tygra responded, "Fools, fops and failures all. Those men have brought us nothing but sorrow, their leadership will be nothing but more of the same."

Phalros stated, "Strange since you have spent the last few years loudly proclaiming that they were dead."

Angrily Samect declared, "The Divine-Emperor deserves better than those frauds, humanity deserves true leadership. The Astartes should be leading the Imperium, not those weaklings."

Phalros growled, "The Lex Imperalis is clear, Astartes were made to fight, not to govern."

"The Lex Imperalis," Lessall sneered, "Imperial law is nothing but a pile of dusty scrolls. Those restrictions are shackle upon our ankle, the time has come to cast it off."

Now Phalros barked, "That is not your decision to make!"

Gorgall cut him off saying, "Lets us not revisit tired old arguments but look to the future. The question before us is what do we do now?"

Toran heard his cue and said, "Our first duty must be to stabilise the galaxy."

"What madness is this?" Jossat spat, "Where would we start with such a task?"

Toran explained, "Consider the topography of the Immaterium. We are acting like this insanity is confined to the northern reaches of the galaxy but that is not true. Look closer to home."

He pointed at a series of vicious warp storms lying across the borders of Segmentums Solar and Tempestus. Then he said, "Look here and here and also here, these were once the primary warp routes from the core worlds surrounding Terra to the southern reaches of the galaxy. Without these only short, dangerous Warp-jumps are possible, taking decades to travel distances that should take weeks. Now all of the major routes are obstructed, effectively cutting off the southern third of the Imperium."

Jossat begrudgingly admitted, "All the fastest and most reliable warp routes are gone… all but one."

Captain Phalros leaned forwards and said, "The Saint Karyl Trail."

Toran nodded, "Indeed no longer a mere Pilgrim Trail, our Chapter now sits at the heart of the only navigable route left between Segmentums Solar and Tempestus. Ships from across half the Segmentum will be forced to divert thousands of light years to traverse this Trail, carrying essential material for the Forges of Terra and Mars. Not only that but also thousands of troop ships, carrying whole armies of Guardsmen and Mass-Conveyors loaded with giga-tonnes of munitions, fuel, rations and equipment. Vital munitions and reinforcements for the wars raging across the galaxy."

Phalros stated, "If we set off to find the biggest war can then our Chapter could save a dozen worlds on our own but if we dedicate ourselves to keeping this supply-line open we could save tens of thousands of planets. The teachings of the Codex are clear; our duty must be to hold this warp route for the Imperium."

Lessall's eyes narrowed at his rival's words and he growled, "This is all well and good but the Primarchs themselves could not control the tides of the Warp. What exactly are we supposed to do if a fresh warp storm erupts here?"

Echeb spoke up to say, "We know next to nothing of the nature of the warp, it is a reality that would sear the sanity of even the strongest man. Yet one inference we can make is that it responds to the mental state of humanity. Panic, terror, despair and suffering, these stir the warp into a frenzy."

Toran declared, "Then we must act to calm the fears of the populace across the whole Saint Karyl Trail. The people need to hear tales of glorious victories and enemies slain; they need to see the Emperor's Finest in action. What the Imperium needs right now are a series of quick and decisive victories, to boost Imperial morale and calm the populace."

Samect sounded suspicious and said, "What specifically are you suggesting?"

Toran answered, "There are plenty of mundane threats in the region we could crush. Here for example, several weeks warp travel past Sacellum, lies the notorious pirate enclave of Tort-tuga. A plague upon the Pilgrim Ships and Mass-Conveyors."

"Pirates?" snorted Erathor, "That is beneath the dignity of the Astartes, the Imperial Navy should handle that scum."

Lessall sneered, "They have known of this pathetic base for decades and done nothing about it."

Yet Toran pressed, "A single Battle-Company could swiftly obliterate their entire base. Removing a threat to Imperial shipping and sending a clear statement that the Imperium can and will strike back at those who oppose the Emperor's will."

Erathor scoffed, "A paltry victory, so easy its barely worth mentioning."

Yet Hakulo spoke up to say, "Easy victories are exactly what we need right now, a series of wins at little to no cost. Imperial morale will be boosted by seeing the Emperor's Angels in action."

"This is beneath a Battle-Company, not worthy of our time," Jossat jeered, "If you lot care so much about the hearts of mortals, then one of you should go."

Lessall's eyes suddenly widened in a horrified realisation but before he could object Seventh Captain Maxitio spoke up. He had been waiting for this, as arranged and he declared, "I second that, this is no fit task for a Battle-Company. The Reserves can handle it, so I nominate Ninth Captain Phalros for the action."

"Now wait a minute…" Lessall spluttered as he saw his rival's plan at last but it was already too late.

Gorgall raised his voice and declared, "I accept your advice and as Chapter Master my decision is made. Phalros, you shall take Ninth Company and the Strike Cruiser Legacy of Glory. You shall eradicate these pirate scum without mercy, but leave one alive to tell the tale. Thus shall we strike the first blow of our new offensive. This will be our first triumph and more shall follow, each of you will receive new tasking orders in due course. The Storm Herald's time of inaction has ended, for the Imperium and Him on Terra we strike now."

Angry faces arose as the Emperor-Worshippers realised that they had just handed the first glories to their rivals. Lessall in particular was looking aggrieved. Toran could tell that he was angry but it was too late, if he argued now he would look foolish. Toran knew that despite Lessall's conniving plots he couldn't oppose the Chapter Master directly in matters of war. The Captains by Lessall's side followed his teachings but orders were orders and they would obey, at least in public.

However if Toran could have gazed into Lessall's mind he wouldn't have been nearly as confident. The Chief Apothecary was fuming and yet not worried, for there was a silver lining in this. Gorgall had just committed to sending his most ardent supporter and a third of his followers away. Far away from the Fortress-Monastery, where they couldn't interfere with what was to come.

In Lessall's mind he hastily adjusted his plans, a slight delay until Phalros was gone and then the odds would slide inexorably in the Emperor-Worshipper's favour. Gorgall didn't know it but he had just signed his own death warrant.


	11. Chapter 11

**Domus Discordia Chapter 11**

Far below the Fortress-Monastery, amid the dark bowels of the earth, shadows ruled. These were the deepest levels of the island, chasms and caverns where the Initiates had not set foot for centuries. Only serfs and servitors came down here and then only infrequently, tending to the ancient devices laid down at the very founding of the Chapter, whose function no one could remember anymore.

Down among those relics there was furtive movement, lone being trying to avoid detection. It was a bulky Transhuman, its armour was smeared with dust and grease, disguising the formerly white colours. It was hiding under the spars that supported a cubic device the size of a Rhino. The shadow's name was Memnos and he was on the run.

Memnos had fled from the Apothecarion days ago but within minutes had become aware that he was being pursued. Hunters were on his trail and he had no other option than to flee deeper and deeper. As he fled Memnos' mind had been reeling with shock. He had been aghast at the scope of the treachery he had uncovered and by its horrifying intent. To think that Lessall planned to kill Gorgall, it would have seemed ludicrous to the Apothecary had he not seen it with his own eyes.

Memnos had tried to think of anyone in the Apothecarion he could turn to for help but no names arose. Every Apothecary had participated in the visionary project; there was not one among them who had not been involved. The selection of subjects and their implantation with the hazardous organs had been mandatory for all. The entire order had already kept secrets from the rest of the Chapter and it was all too easy to think of them keeping more. Memnos had been left with but one option, he had to reach Gorgall before the assassins did.

Memnos had decided to skirt underneath the routinely patrolled areas and rise directly under Gorgall's quarters, hoping to encounter the Honour Guards before his pursuers, but that plan had been dashed. His hunters were Space Marines too, just as skilled and deadly as he was, and they knew this environment as well as he did. Despite tearing out his vox Memnos had been forced far off course and he knew it was only a matter of time until they found him.

Squatting in shadow Memnos finished his labours then he emerged from cover. He dashed across the way to another device and climbed up, coming to rest upon the top. There he waited, but not for long. Within minutes he heard the distinct tread of armoured boots and he hurriedly cut his power armour's reactor cell to minimum, disguising its heat bloom.

In the darkness Memnos saw two hunters closing. They were armed and alert, clearly on his scent. From his cover Memnos could see their heraldry, declarations of Company and squad. The Apothecary slammed his will down on the impulse to read these. It may turn out that he knew these Marines but if he thought of them as comrades then he might hesitate, which would be deadly. This was no time for emotion; he must be cold, clinical and ruthless.

As they approached he saw them tense up, detecting a heat trace from his former hiding place. Efficiently they spread out and covered the device, sweeping it with their bolters. There was no call for surrender, no chance to yield, the hunters merely covered the angles with expert skill and then they struck. One hung back to cover while other pounced, shoving his weapon into the nooks and crannies where Memnos could have hidden. At which point the pair discovered the nature of his trap.

Memnos had no idea what this device did, nor what role it played in the Fortress-Monastery but he had recognised the fact that it was powered by a plasma conduit. With utmost care Memnos had cut through the magnetic seals, letting heat bleed out to draw in pursuers. Then he had wedged a trio of Krak grenades into the cut and left them on a hair-trigger. The motion of the hunter jostled the device and in turn awakened the Machine Spirits of the grenades. One moment there was darkness and silence, the next there was light and noise and fire, a brilliant and terrible fire. Searing plasma bloomed in all directions, covering the area with lethal fury. The first hunter was engulfed in plasma, vaporised in a heartbeat, not even ashes were left. The other suffered a spray upon his arm and hastily retreated, desperately swatting it off even as his Ceramite dissolved and his skin charred.

In that moment Memnos struck, leaping for the remaining hunter. He had to move swiftly, before his foe had a chance to get a vox-call off. The Apothecary leapt from on high, knife in hand as he fell from above. His foe however reacted with Transhuman speed, spinning about to fire off a trio of bolter shots. Memnos felt the impacts across his chest and belly, the accuracy simply superb. His plate held proof against the first and the second but the third smote his belly with thunderous power, smashing through the ceramite before detonating to spill his enhanced blood. Memnos was wounded but not dead and he fell with all his wrath concentrated on the point of his knife. He saw his foe close with inexorable slowness and as he plummeted he angled the knife just right so that it penetrated his enemy's eye-lens. Apothecary and warrior went down in a clatter of plate and a tangle of limbs. Hitting the ground hard and rolling over each other.

Silence arose and all was still for a moment, but them Memnos shoved the weight of his dead foe off him and stood up, the blood dripping from his knife looking like rubies in the searing light. Memnos was wounded and bleeding but he had no time to waste, these hunters would soon be missed and he had to relocate immediately. Memnos turned to move away but barely had he taken a step when his guts clenched and he doubled over in pain.

Memnos snarled, he was a Space Marine, pain should be nothing to him. He tried to take another step but his guts burned fiercely and gore rose in his throat. Memnos was in agony and he knew it was but the symptom of something more. He was an Apothecary; he knew exactly the limits an Astartes could be pushed to. He knew how much damage they could shrug off, which was a lot, their zeal carried them through inconceivable torments but sometimes they took wounds even they could not ignore. If they were truly invulnerable then they would not need Apothecaries. It did not even have to be extensive damage, merely located in just the right place and this pain was definitely of the second category.

Gasping in pain Memnos staggered away, bent over double with his hand pressed to the crater in his abdomen. He lurched onwards, as Larraman cells formed a thick clot over the wound but they did nothing for the pain, this damage was far deeper. Memnos wobbled off into the dark, his head swimming and his vision blurring.

Memnos lost track of time as he lurched past cavern after cavern filled with arcane devices, each more lonely than the last. Just as his legs were starting to give out he saw his chance, a cargo-lift, one that could carry him away from here. Memnos stumbled into the cage and pulled down the metal mesh that passed for a door. A large runepanel was set into the wall and Memnos pressed a button at random, making the cargo-lift creakily ascend.

Memnos fell down on his rear; legs sprawled out before him as he considered the problem. His body was not healing, a sign that internal damage was mounting. He concluded that medical intervention was necessary and since there was no one else present he would have to do it himself. Memnos recited a mantra, a tool to compartmentalise his mind. He placed his pain and his emotions into a mental box and devoted his consciousness to the task at hand, becoming detached from his own experiences. Memnos' mind descended into a state of pure clinical diagnosis and he regarded his own flesh as he would any other patient's.

The patient had taken mass-reactive rounds to the gut; the explosive damage was wide but shallow, well within the ability of the artificial implants to manage. Could there be deeper damage, he wondered, perhaps shrapnel had penetrated the abdomen. If so the only option was exploratory surgery.

With trembling hands Memnos reached up and fumbled at the clasps of his breastplate, slowly pulling it away to reveal the fibre bundle undersheath. This he peeled back, exposing his Black Carapace implant only to find that there was a small hole in it. Memnos raised his Narthecium and triggered the bone saw; he paused to consider applying a local anaesthetic but dismissed it as an unnecessary complication. Unwaveringly Memnos brought his spinning saw down to his belly and began cutting. He gritted his teeth as the vibrations rocked him and he sweated profusely as the saw cut his hardened flesh. In the mental box something was screaming in agony but his detached mind ignored it, pain was irrelevant.

Once the incision was done he hastily sprayed an anti-coagulant into it, to prevent the Larraman cells clotting. Now he had an opening but his angle of view was poor, he needed to look inside the wound itself. Memnos drew forth a fat mechandrite from his Narthecium, one with micro-tools, instruments and a pict-imager on the end. He muttered the litany of awakening through clenched teeth as he blinked clicked a symbol in his helm's display and the Machine Spirit stirred, the tiny metal tendril wiggling like a worm.

Memnos fed the mechandrite into the incision and grimaced as the screaming within the mental box grew louder. He ignored it and focussed upon the image being projected into his helm's eye lenses. As suspected the patient had suffered extensive damage throughout the abdomen, but it was nothing a Space Marine's enhanced physiology couldn't cope with.

Chemical sniffers detected the traces of faecal matter in the wound and he turned to examine the large intestine. Ah yes, shrapnel had indeed pierced the patient's bowel in two places, spilling toxic waste into the body. Memnos carefully fed the mechandrite towards the perforations and extended micro-tools from it to extract the offending shards. Meticulously he removed the metal from the bowel and using micro-sutures he stitched the organ back together. Memnos pulled the metal shards from his guts, holding them in the palm of his hand but he wasn't done yet. The patient seemed to have slowed in deterioration but toxins were not being cleared as they should.

Memnos went back in again; pushing towards the patient's implanted organs. He examined them one by one until he reached the Oolitic Kidney. Ah, there it was, a metal spike ripping into the artificial organ. Without the Ooltic kidney the patient could not clear the toxins and the shard was preventing the implant from repairing itself. Wasting no time Memnos pressed his mechandrite deeper and began to excise the shrapnel.

The howling in his mental box was becoming distracting now but he focussed solely on his task. After a few minutes work he had removed the shard and applied sutures. Miraculously the damage instantly began to shrink, tissue fibres growing back with an alacrity that was a tribute to the Emperor's genius design.

Memnos carefully pulled the mechandrite out, taking the shard with it. Then he applied a sterilising spray and a fast-acting sealant over the wound. The surgery was complete and the Transhuman organs were already working to restore equilibrium, the patient's chances of recovery were excellent. As an afterthought Memnos applied a pain-balm and the screaming in the mental box diminished somewhat.

Memnos considered his work complete, so he had no more excuses for lying about, not when he had a mission to accomplish. First he would stand up and retrieve his breastplate and then make his way to Chapter Master Gorgall. Yes, that's what he would do, just as soon as he figured out how to make his legs work. This was proving to be a thorny problem for his legs didn't seem to want to co-operate. Stupid things, he thought, they didn't…

Blackness swept over Memnos, crushing his mind into oblivion. As the cargo-lift rumbled up into the light Memnos sank into the darkness. Unconsciousness took him and Memnos was lost to the world, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep, for Emperor alone knew how long.


	12. Chapter 12

**Domus Discordia Chapter 12**

At the heart of the Fortress-Monastery there was a residence. A large suite of chambers, set aside for the use of various dignitaries and visiting worthies. The whole place was decorated with statues and paintings of the Chapter's most notable battles, all intended to impress anybody who came to visit. Naturally the residence was also rigged with countless surveillance devices, vox-thieves, hidden pict-lenses, and poison sniffers.

Currently this was home to Chapter Master Gorgall, who was sitting in a reinforced chair behind a large Nalwood desk, covered in scrolls and data-slates. Gorgall had been quartered here for more years than he cared to remember and circumstances had forced him to make changes. The windows were reinforced, the door always watched by two Honour Guards and the walls were lined with relic weapons, all within easy reach.

Once Gorgall had boasted his own minaret, set aside for whoever was Chapter Master. That minaret had been lost, destroyed during the Chaos invasion. Technically it had been done under Captain Toran's orders, a fact that still irked Gorgall no small amount. Yet he found he could not blame the Captain, the battle had been desperate and gruelling, a handful of Astartes set against tens of thousands not to mention hundreds of Chaos Marines. The newly-promoted Toran had claimed victory only by a hairsbreadth, an astonishingly unlikely outcome made possible only by the most outrageously unorthodox thinking.

Gorgall had considered having his minaret rebuilt as part of the restoration work, more than anything else he missed the spectacular view. Sadly that would have smacked of pride and vanity, now more than ever he needed to show solidarity with the Initiates, he couldn't afford to look aloof. This thought made him sigh out loud, was nothing free of political considerations? The noise drew the attention of his serf-equerry, who was seated across from him. She looked up and said, "Master?"

Gorgall looked over his desk at his equerry, a grey-haired woman with a greyer dress and a lined face. Her name was Sahia, his constant companion, faithful retainer and a confidential ear when he needed to vent. Gorgall shook his head and said, "Thinking out loud."  
Sahia raised an eyebrow and said, "About what?"

From anyone else Gorgall would have taken exception at the familiarity but Sahia had been his confident for decades and he could tell her things he wouldn't anyone else. Gorgall leaned back, his Artificer armour purring and said, "I wonder sometimes, have the Storm Heralds always been so fractious, so mired in politics? Was there ever a time when we fought without a greater agenda hanging over our heads?"  
Sahia frowned and said, "I could look in the archives if you like."

Gorgall shook his head and said, "No, it doesn't matter. All that is important right now is stopping Lessall and Samect. They will see us dragged into a war with the Imperium we can't win, or rather shouldn't be allowed to win."  
Sahia inquired, "How are we going to stop them?"

Gorgall thought about it for a moment then said, "A tricky problem, I need to keep the Captains busy but our allies need to win more glory than Lessall's side. Phalros and Ninth Company translated into the Warp this morning, they're well away now, but what to do with the rest?"  
Sahia nodded and inquired, "Want some Tanna while you think?"

Gorgall nodded distractedly and gazed out the window as Sahia stood up and walked over to a kettle in the corner. It was a small indulgence, Valhalla Tanna was rare and hard to get, especially now, but rank had its privileges. The Honour Guards watched like hawks as Sahia made the drink, stirring it with a small spoon.

Meanwhile Gorgall was pondering. The situation was tense and he was surrounded by those who wished him ill. He went nowhere without his nameless Honour Guards and he wore his armour day and night; even here he dare not go undefended. That was more problematic than he cared to admit, power armour was designed for war not clerking. His daily tasks were tediously difficult in the plate, holding a Tanna bowl or a stylus was surprisingly hard when one was encased in Ceramite but the task was one he refused to let defeat him.

Sahia came back and presented his Tanna in her right hand as Gorgall reached out and took the tiny bowl in his huge gauntlets. He held the bowl for a long moment, eyes staring at his equerry then he lifted his hands and took a sip. After a moment he lowered it and said, "A spoonful of honey."  
Sahia sat down and said, "Just how you like it."

Gorgall lowered the cup and said, "You always know how to do it just right."  
"I try," replied Sahia as she picked up a scroll and skimmed the contents.

Gorgall was quiet for a moment then said, "You have served me a long time."  
"Yes my lord," Sahia replied distantly.  
"Surprising what you can learn about somebody in that time," Gorgall remarked, "How they take their Tanna, how to polish their armour, what time they like to have a drink."

Sahia looked up and asked, "Is there something you wish to say?"  
Gorgall put the bowl down and placed his hands upon the desk saying, "Only that the real Sahia is left-handed."

There was a moment of utter stillness and then Sahia, or rather the being impersonating Sahia leapt up. She erupted from her chair with impossible speed, springing from a seated position like she had been launched from a springboard. Her hand shimmered and a knife was suddenly in it, coming right at Gorgall's face.

However the Chapter Master was already in motion, rising to flip the desk over. The heavy wooden desk hit the imposter full on and knocked her backwards in a jumble data-slates and spilled scrolls. Barely a second passed before the desk was flung aside with inhuman strength but Gorgall was already diving out of the way. There was the ringing of boots as Gorgall heard his Honour Guard charging forward, power axes sizzling with deadly energy. They dove at the imposter and swept their weapons down but somehow managed to miss her entirely. The imposter twisted and writhed like a contortionist and every blow skimmed past without making contact.

The pretender leapt high, grabbing the gorget of one Honour Guard to pull herself up and flip over his head. As she went upwards she left a parting gift, a knife rammed right through his throat and out the other side. The Astartes froze as his brain tried to understand that he had been killed but before he could fall down the imposter had landed with her feet astride his pauldrons.

The other Honour Guard roared and swept his axe upwards but the pretender was already leaping again, somersaulting high to let the weapon pass under her feet. Somehow, a long shimmering blade erupted out of the back of her right wrist and she swung it downwards. She landed lightly on her feet behind the Honour Guard, who slowly toppled over to one side while his decapitated head rolled away in the other direction.

All this had barely taken a few seconds but Gorgall had been far from idle. While his guards had fought to save him Gorgall had leapt at the wall and grabbed a Relic weapon, a long spear with two energised blades at each end. He lifted the weapon and spun about only to be confronted by a strange sight. The imposter was changing before his eyes, the image of Sahia sloughing off her to reveal what was benath. In her place was a slim female, clad head to toe in a black body-glove. She had no face save for a blank mask and two large eye-lenses. In her left hand was a short knife but from the back of her right extended a long punch-dagger, shimmering ethereally.

Gorgall hefted his weapon and growled, "Callidus assassin... so Sahia is dead then."  
The assassin circled the room hissing, "Courtesy of your Chief Apothecary and High Chaplain."

Gorgall was stalling, buying time for more guards to arrive and he said, "They don't have the clout for this. Oh, I see... they reached out, that was the reason behind Lessall's mysterious little trip. Who did he contact: Inquisitor Forbex, Mecquita or Zerban?"  
"Doesn't matter," the Assassin stated, "Your Chapter has enemies in high places and they want you all dead. You nobodies have finally become too much of a nuisance to ignore."

"Killing me won't destroy the Storm Heralds," Gorgall growled.  
"It will when they find the evidence that your precious Captain Toran killed you," the assassin hissed, "Then your precious Chapter will tear itself apart."

"Framing Toran for my death, nobody will believe that," Gorgall jeered, "Besides if you kill me with those weapons everybody will know that no Astartes did this."  
The assassin snorted, "Please I am no amateur, I could kill you with a butter knife and still achieve the proper effect."

Suddenly Gorgall was moving, swinging his spear right at the assassin's heart. Yet she twisted backwards in a move that should have shattered her spine and the blades passed over her. She cartwheeled backwards and her foot came up, catching Gorgall's hand. The spear was nearly knocked from his grip but he clung on fiercely and gave pursuit, swinging and chopping at his elusive foe.

Gorgall was a Chapter Master, he had slain thousands of enemies, Xenos, Heretics and Traitors. He knew his weapons intimately and was at the peak of Transhuman ability yet somehow he just couldn't make contact. The assassin's limbs were moving in ways that human joints shouldn't be able to and she was contorting out of the way of every blow. She ducked and wove and danced around his strikes, always managing to be where his blades weren't.

Gorgall bellowed furiously, swinging wide and the energised field of his blades scorched the assassin's back as she ducked, blistering her through the weave of her bodyglove. In return her knife flashed out, lancing into his knee joint but the indomitable spirit of his armour held true and it merely scored across the surface.

Gorgall redoubled his efforts, trying to pin her in a corner but the assassin wasn't planning to retreat. Without any warning she shifted from defence to attack, springing right at him. Gorgall tried to block her with the haft of his spear but she oozed around it and struck right at his hearts. Gorgall's plate was the finest artificer armour, proof against any known attack and he trusted it with his life. Yet it had never been tested against a C'tan Phase Sword. The half-corporeal blade shimmered as it bypassed the Ceramite before rematerializing inside his chest, tearing both hearts apart.

The scene froze, the giant Transhuman standing stock still as the assassin pressed against him, holding her fist against his chest. Slowly Gorgall's pallor went grey and his mouth moved, as it trying to utter one last affirmation for the ages, some phrase to be remembered by, but no words came out. Infinitesimally slowly his head bowed, eyes glazing over, then death claimed him and Gorgall collapsed.

All was still as the assassin pulled back her blade but she had no time to waste. Hastily she bent over Gorgall's corpse and extracted a special tool from a skin pocket. She spent several minutes working over the body, creating the right kind of wounds, so exact that even a Magos Biologis would think Gorgall had been killed with a long sword.

Her task done she straightened up and pulled free another device, one whose existence was strenuously denied by the Inquisition. Effortlessly the Jokero-made machine reached out into the vox waves, and overrode any nearby Machine Spirits. Using techniques no human fully understood it deleted any pict-logs of the last few minutes and replaced them with a false recording. Should any look, all they would find would be a recording of Gorgall being murdered by none other than Captain Toran.

Her task done the assassin departed, leaving no trace that she was ever there. Yet little did she know she had missed something. Gorgall had taken precautions of his own and buried behind a blank wall was a small cogitator, tied to a vox-set. The device was set on a dead-man switch, keyed to Gorgall's armour and the second it stopped receiving the sign of his hearts beating it was triggered.

Unseen by all the small vox began to transmit two words, on a special frequency. Over and over, it proclaimed for any who were listening, "Calth burns. Calth burns. Calth burns."


	13. Chapter 13

**Domus Discordia Chapter 13**

"Is it true?" the rumours rang, "Did you hear?"

Nobody knew where the rumours came from or who first said the words but they were everywhere. Seemingly spontaneously everybody just began saying it across the length and breadth of the Fortress-Monastery. "Is it true? Did you hear?" with each telling the next words changed, growing more exotic and elaborate with every retelling.

In the serf's quarter they said, "Is it true? Did you hear, the Monastery has been attacked and Gorgall is nowhere to be found." In the munition stores aged serf-artisans whispered, "Is it true? Did you hear Gorgall has declared war upon the Imperium?" In launch hangers burly men spoke in quiet voices, "Is it true? Did you hear Gorgall went insane and killed his own Honour Guard?" In the shooting galleries young serf-children, gathering spent bolt shell casing whispered, "Is it true? Did you hear Gorgall killed an Inquisitor lurking in his quarters?"

Even the Space Marines were not immune, the barracks ringing with rumours and gossip. "Is it true?" they whispered, "Did you hear a Daemon penetrated the Monastery and attacked Gorgall in his own quarters?" While those training in the various parks and recreations of exotic environments whispered, "Is it true? Did you hear Gorgall has been relieved of his command by the Captains?"

Striding through the Fortress-Monastery Reclusiarch Wrethan heard the rumours and they made him scowl. He had been attending to his new duties in the various lesser chapels when the rumours first came to his ears. He had immediately set off back to the heart of the Fortress-Monastery, passing gaggles of serfs at every turn. The island was vast and even with his physique it took him nearly an hour to reach the Reclusiam. All the way he was hounded by the various rumours, no two alike and they made his head spin. The only commonality was that the rumours revolved around Chapter Master Gorgall and heralded disaster in some shape or form.

Wrethan could feel the mood changing around him, a shift in the spirit of the Chapter. He could see it in the dark glances, in the whispers and dread lurking in the faces of everybody he saw. Something had changed, he could sense it, a fundamental shift in the environment that would forever rewrite the nature of the Storm Heralds. Yet was it for good or ill, he could not tell.

Finally Wrethan burst into the Reclusiam and found that he was not the first to arrive. Standing in the immense length of the sacred space he found the Captains who had sworn to the True Believers. Jossat, Tygra, Erathor and Hakulo, all loudly arguing with each other. They were shouting at the top of their lungs, all of them talking at once and not one listening to another.

Wrethan marched in and bellowed "Silence!"

As one the four of them turned to face him and Sixth Captain Erathor called, "At last, someone who might know something. Quickly Wrethan tell us, what have you heard?"

Wrethan marched up to the Captains and said, "I hear many things, all of them bad."

Jossat shook his head and stated, "Dark tidings, all around. Nobody seems to know what is going on."

Hakulo spoke up to say, "Chapter Master Gorgall is incommunicado, nobody can reach him."

Tygra added, "Lessall and Samect are cloistered away, they said they will meet us here but so far there has been nothing."

Wrethan accepted that and said, "Rest assured they will tell us when there is something concrete to be told. In the meantime we must be ready for anything, what is the status of your Companies?"

Jossat proudly declared, "Fourth Company is sworn to the True Believers, there is not a Marine in my Company who does not give worship to the Emperor."

Hakulo stated firmly, "Eighth Company knows better than to disobey me, they will follow my lead."

Tygra however looked perturbed and admitted, "There have been difficulties in Fifth Company, not every Brother has accepted the new faith. A few holdouts refuse to swear allegiance to the True Believers."

Erathor too looked sad and said, "I too have met a token resistance, not all of Sixth Company was receptive."

Wrethan didn't like the sound of that and asked, "What have you done with these hold-outs?"

Erathor answered, "I have relieved them of their weapons and confined them to the Barracks. They present no major concern."

"Good," Wrethan declared, "Keep them locked up for now, in time they will see the truth and join us. We need only be patient with them."

At that moment there was a thunderous crash of a side-door being flung open and all eyes turned to see who approached. It was Lessall and Samect, marching towards them with grim expressions. Wrethan felt a mummer of unease creep into his hearts, whatever the news was it must be bad. The pair closed swiftly and Lessall declared, "You are all here, that is good."

Jossat eagerly asked, "You bring news, what has happened? What is going on?"

Lessall lifted his head and proclaimed loudly, "Gorgall is dead, slain in his own quarters!"

Gasps of horror greeted that, dismay and disbelief spreading among them. Even Wrethan felt it, a yawning pit open up in his hearts. Gorgall had not been loved or greatly admired but he had still been the Chapter Master. Respect for that office was deeply ingrained by the hypno-indoctrination and even those who opposed Gorgall could not help but mourn his death. Wrethan was struggling to imagine a Chapter without Gorgall, who would lead them now? But in the depths of his mind a small voice whispered that there were many present who would gladly take up the mantle.

Hakulo was eyeing the Masters and he said, "How did he die? Who killed him?!"

Samect snarled an answer, "The murderer was one of our own, the killer was Third Captain Toran!"

Horrified silence greeted that and then a voice shouted, "Never!"

It was a long second before Wrethan realised that the voice had been his own and now everybody was staring at him. He swallowed to gain a moment to think then elaborated, "Forgive my outburst but I must speak. I have served with Third Company for years, I have watched Toran since he was a Sergeant and I cannot believe this to be true. The Third Captain would never raise his hand to his liege lord, he would die first."

Tygra sneered, "Do not let familiarity blind you, he is a murderer!"

Surprisingly Erathor spoke up to say, "I bear little love for Toran, he is arrogant and has been promoted well beyond his abilities yet he is no cold-blooded murderer. Despite his troubling tendency to innovate there is not a dishonourable bone in his body."

Wrethan was surprised to hear the Sixth Captain support Toran but Jossat sneered, "A troublemaker is more like it. Ever since he got his hands upon the Sword of Thiel he has swaggered around like he owns this place, thinking he's better than us. His Company is no better, a gaggle of misfits and leftovers, with no real steel to them."

Wrethan felt his anger rise and he spat, "Do not insult the Third in front of me, they are stalwart and true."

Hakulo stepped in before this became an argument and stated, "This makes no sense, Toran was Gorgall's man, why would he attack his own leader?"

Erathor agreed, "Indeed, there must be some mistake here."

However Samect declared, "We do not ask you to take this on faith, we bring proof."

Lessall held up a data-slate and said, "I have examined the body and found the wounds to be consistent with a long blade. A weapon such as the Sword of Thiel could have produced such an effect."

Wrethan felt a need to point out, "That is circumstantial, there are many weapons that could make such a wound."

Samect shook his head and said, "There is more, Gorgall was growing paranoid, his quarters were festooned with pict-lenses. We implored the Spirits of the Logic-Engines for their records and found this."

Everybody peered as the data-slate began to play a recording. Wrethan saw the Chapter Master's chambers and Gorgall himself, sitting at a desk. Then the doors burst inwards and Wrethan gasped to see Toran emerge. The Captain seemed to have gone berserk, attacking the Honour Guards before they could react and slaying them, then launching himself at Gorgall. Wrethan had seen Toran fight, his skill with a blade was average but he had a gift for channelling his pain into a furious onslaught that oft caught his foes off-guard. This was different, Toran seemed completely insane, attacking without restraint or thought. Wrethan watched in horror as the pair battled back and forth, then Toran rammed his blade into Gorgall's hearts, ending his life in a single thrust.

Wrethan gasped in disbelief, "It can't be… it can't be. Not Toran… he wouldn't do this."

"But it is," Lessall declared, "Your former Captain is a murderer, he has gone insane."

Wrethan's head was reeling with shock and revulsion. He was an Astartes, conditioned for war and any circumstance imaginable but this was beyond belief. He tried to think of a reason behind this betrayal, any reason but none came forth. It was Tygra who said thoughtfully, "I once heard a rumour that during the Phage Crisis one of Third Company went insane and attacked his own."

"Sergeant Mylos," Wrethan spat remembering that shameful day all too well, "He was addled by the disease, he went mad and attacked his own leader. It was shameful and disgusting, to think a virus could turn an Astartes against their own."

Jossat followed that thought saying, "Perhaps this is the same, this Mylos may merely have been the first. Maybe the disease lay dormant, just waiting to drive Toran mad."

Wrethan found that hard to accept but it was the only thing that made sense. Mylos' deeds had been shameful but his madness had come from the disease not his heart. Could Toran have fallen victim to the same fate? Wrethan murmured, "I suppose it is possible."

Lessall drew in a breath and said, "There is worse news for this is not an isolated case. Apothecary Memnos has gone mad too; he has slain several of the True Believers and fled into the bowels of the Fortress-Monastery."

More gasps met that and Wrethan felt his word falling out from under him. Jossat was staring at him and growled, "Weren't you infected too Wrethan?"

However Samect stepped in and said, "Wrethan has willingly joined our cause, I take that as a sign that his mind is clear. Any whom have the good sense to join our cause must be sane and therefore free of taint. As for the rest…"

Hakulo spoke up to say, "What are we going to do?"

Lessall growled, "Nobody outside our cause can be trusted, all others must be rounded up and brought to us for questioning."

Erathor looked doubtful and said, "How far are you willing to take this?"

Samect answered, "We do not desire bloodshed but all must submit to our authority. We shall issue a warrant over the vox, Toran and Memnos are to be placed under arrest and brought to us, if they resist they are to be shot. As for the rest they will be given ample opportunity to comply, if they swear loyalty to the True Believers then we shall know they remain pure. If they resist then they mark themselves out as tainted and the use of force is authorised to bring them to heel."

Lessall stepped in and said, "Tygra go to the Seventh and make Maxitio bend the knee. Jossat go to the scout-barracks and force Judio to swear fealty to us. Erathor go to the barracks of the Third, they are the most suspect, they must bow to you. Samect, Hakulo and Wrethan, we have First Company Brothers and stray Honour Guards scattered everywhere, round them up one by one."

Jossat's eyes glared at being given orders by an Apothecary but it was Wrethan who asked, "What if they refuse to comply?"

Lessall growled, "Give them a chance to convert but if they refuse to see reason then they must die."

Wrethan was dismayed by that, he couldn't imagine killing another Storm Herald and he said, "Kill our own, is that necessary?"

"It is unavoidable," Samect declared to one and all, "From this moment forth all are to be counted among the ranks of the True Believers, else be condemned forevermore as our enemies."


	14. Chapter 14

**Domus Discordia Chapter 14**

The duel was fierce and fast, two Transhumans exchanging blows with a ferocity and speed that would have dazzled any mortal. They moved with a strength and surety born from centuries of experience, backed up by enhanced muscles and Ceramite armour. Back and forth they danced with blades flashing, a deadly display of skill and grace.

Standing to one side Captain Toran watched as his subordinates duelled, circling the training cage as they slashed, thrust and parried. Novak, the Company Champion was sparring with Bylan, the Standard Bearer. A dazzling display of post-human might. Elsewhere the rest of Third Company went about their daily routines, alert but not especially wary. Toran and the rest of the Command squad had taken the opportunity to train, honing their skills and testing each other's readiness.

Toran leaned over to Furion and commented, "Bylan's doing well."

Furion chuckled, "Don't be fooled, Novak's going easy on him."

Besides them Jediah muttered under his breath, "Here it comes, three, two, one."

Sure enough on the exact count Novak's hand twisted and Bylan's blade went flying away, torn from his grip. Novak laid his training blade across the Standard Bearer's neck and said, "You're dead."

Bylan sighed in exasperation but rasped, "+Congratulations Brother.+"

Novak withdrew his blade and said, "You need to keep your arm loose, you're too rigid."

Bylan replied, "+You try carrying a Standard+"

Toran knew Bylan was jesting, his duty to carry the standard was one he took as a high honour. Never had he faltered and never would he let it fall. Toran had given the youthful marine his trust and Bylan was in awe of his Captain, he would die before letting it fall.

The pair stepped back and as Bylan exited the cage Novak said, "Who's next?"

Jediah grumbled, "This isn't war. I want to get away from all this political grox-dung and find a real fight."

Bylan nodded and said, "+A genuine battle with real foes and Titans+"

Furion smiled and remarked, "Still haven't given up on your dream of seeing a Titan?"

Bylan grinned and replied, "+It would be magnificent to see such a sight. To march in the shadow of Titans… well I can dream+"

Toran grinned and said, "Things are getting back to normal around here, soon we will deploy off-world and I will make sure that you see some."

"+I'll hold you to that+" Bylan stated.

Everybody laughed, with one notable exception. Toran frowned and looked over at Persion who seemed to be distracted. The communication specialist was scowling in annoyance, Toran was curious and called, "Persion… What are you doing?"

Persion looked up in surprise and said, "Something strange is going on."

Furion glanced over and inquired, "How so?"

Persion shook his head and said, "There's a lot of chatter on the vox, lots of confusing messages and I keep picking up an odd signal on that non-standard frequency you told me to watch."

Toran suddenly felt a chill run down his spine and his trigger finger developed an itch. That was the frequency Gorgall had given him, to be used only in emergencies. Hurriedly he asked, "Are there any messages?"

Persion scowled and said, "That's what's confusing me, it's only two words: Calth Burns."

The hairs stood up on Toran's neck and he experienced a dizzying moment of confusion and denial. The implications making his head reel. What could have happened? What was going on? Instantly his Hypno-indoctrinated walls of self-control slammed down, danger loomed and he had no time to waste on idle speculation. Toran raised his vox company-wide and yelled, "Brothers of the Third, to arms! Stand to your posts and prepare for the worst!"

Confused expressions greeted him but Toran snapped at his squad, "Don't just stand there, Novak get your sword ready and Bylan retrieve the Standard. Furion ensure all squads are ready to move out and Jediah go check the back entrance to the barracks is unobserved."

Instantly the Marines responded, the orders cutting through any questions and inquiries they had. As the squad bustled away Persion was left to say, "Captain, what's going on?"

"Trouble," Toran replied, "I need more information, can you tell me who is talking out there?"

Persion checked the vox and said, "A lot of noise on the Chaplaincy channels, but it's all encrypted."

"Break into it," Toran snapped.

Persion glanced up and said, "Excuse me, you're actually asking me to break into officer-level comms?"

"I am not asking, I am giving you an order," Toran commanded, "Get me more intel, now."

Persion slunk into a corner and Toran strode off, checking the squads of the Third were ready. He saw Sergeants leading their Marines in their preparations. The squads were moving swiftly and diligently to their posts, turning the Third Company barracks into a fortified bunker. Every entrance was covered, every access point sealed and secured. Everywhere Toran looked faces were turned to him in curiosity but he had no answers to give them, only the itching of his trigger finger presaging danger looming over them. Quietly Toran tried his vox, trying to reach Gorgall or Maxitio but to his surprise he found it was being blocked by someone. He strode up to Furion and barked, "Report!"

Furion was directing the various squads and replied, "All secured, but we can't hold off a determined assault for long."

"If it comes to that we will withdraw rather than be pinned in a siege," Toran said as he spied Jediah approaching at a run.

Jediah skidded to a halt and reported, "Captain, the back entrance is being watched by unfriendly eyes. Thankfully the underground passage we added after the invasion, the one nobody's supposed to know about, is clear. We can withdraw unobserved."

Toran should have been relieved but his suspicions only grew. Who was watching them and why? At that moment Persion came running up, a look of horror on his face and he yelled, "Captain, he's dead!"

Toran was confused and said, "Who is?"

"Gorgall!" Persion cried in alarm, "The Chapter Master has been murdered!"

Everybody looked around at that, a sudden shocked silence falling over the whole Company. Dismay and disbelief filled every face and mouths fell wide in shock. Toran felt his world drop out from under him. How could this happen, he asked himself, who could have done this? A small part of his mind answered his own question; there were two who would be more than happy to see Gorgall eliminated.

"Lessall and Samect," Toran growled through clenched teeth, "They did this."

From behind the voice of Bylan gasped, "+Surely not, they are Storm Heralds too+"

"Don't delude yourself," Jediah hissed, "Those two would stop at nothing to seize power."

Novak spat, "This is Mylos all over again."

Furion's face was filling with anger, a slow-burning volcano of rage that would burn down all it encountered. His voice resounded deeply as he rumbled, "Honour, Brotherhood, Integrity, those curs spit upon them all. They must be held to account!"

Toran shared his anger and growled, "I thought we were winning this battle but I didn't even know what kind of war we were fighting."

From the waiting squads, a voice called, "What shall we do?" That snapped Toran back to reality and he saw the milling faces of his squads, looking lost and abandoned. A cold, rational part of his mind slapped himself and he knew he had to get these Brothers past their shock. How and why no longer mattered, war was upon them and an Astartes must always be ready to fight. Toran called back, "Brothers we are betrayed, those we should call friends are revealed to be base traitors. I share your anger but this is no time for rash heads. Hold your wrath close to your hearts, hone it and make it the sharpest of blades. Until then we can't stay here, those curs will seek to box us in so we have to get out first. Prepare to move, we will withdraw and regroup elsewhere."

The squads fell out and began to withdraw and Toran turned to Persion saying, "They will attempt to track our voxs, can you mask our signals?"

"Please," Persion snorted in derision, "Don't you know who you're talking to. I can lead them a merry dance, chasing vox ghosts' half-way across the Fortress-Monastery."

Suddenly Jediah cried out, "Perimeter alarm, we have intruders... its Erathor!"

Toran felt events running away from him, but he responded with brusque orders, "Everybody withdraw now! I will stall them, Furion get everybody into the tunnel before they pin us down."

Furion however said, "I'm coming with you, Jediah you know what to do."

Together the pair marched over to the main door, heavily reinforced and set in a thick stone wall. Toran stood proudly and refused to blink as Captain Erathor strode in, walking as if he owned the place. He was wearing his Lightning claws and was escorted by a squad, all armed and ready. Toran had never liked Erathor; the two had rubbed each other wrong since the start but Erathor seemed utterly shocked when he laid eyes upon Toran.

"Toran?! You're still here?" Erathor started in surprise.

"Where else would I be?" Toran growled, "You had better explain why you're here Erathor."

"You dare speak to me as if you had any right?!" Erathor spat, "You filthy mongrel. I am here to place you and all of Third Company under arrest."

"On what charge?" Toran spat, stalling for time.

"Murder most foul," Erathor snarled, "You killed Chapter Master Gorgall!"

Toran was stunned by the accusation but it was Furion who barked, "That is a lie! I have a hundred witnesses who will vouch that Captain Toran has not left this barracks in days. He could not have done this."

Erathor snorted, "I should have known you had a clever alibi prepared, but you do not fool us. The True Believers have seen the records, you are a murderer!"

Toran was outraged to be accused so and he shouted, "Open your eyes, why would I kill Gorgall? It is Lessall and Samect, they had the most to gain from this infamy."

"I will not heed your falsehoods," Erathor spat, "Submit to my authority or your whole Company will face the consequences."

Toran growled, "We are not going anywhere with you."

Toran saw Erathor's hand twitch and he threw himself backwards as the guard's bolters came up. Toran hit the ground hard as the bolts flew over his head, missing him by a hairsbreadth. He reached for his own weapons, intending to shoot back but before he could do so something intervened. From behind a flurry of missiles soared over his head, flying high to impact the wall right above the door. There was a spray of rock shards and splinters, followed by a terrible rumble as massive cracks spread everywhere. A single moment later the wall collapsed, tumbling rocks and boulders down in an avalanche of stone. Erathor and his men were taken by surprise as stonework fell on their heads, forced to retreat lest they be crushed by falling masonry. Where the door had been was only a pile of debris, spewing dust as the rock settled.

Toran was left coughing as his multi-lung filtered out the choking dust but he felt strong hands under his arms. He was hoisted to his feet and heard Furion shout, "Come on Captain, no time for lying about. That won't hold them for long."

"When did you plan that?" Toran coughed.

"The day we got back," Furion replied frankly, "Good job too."

From behind them Jediah was standing with a Devastator squad, whose missile launchers were still smoking and he yelled, "Will you two quit patting yourselves on the back! More are coming through the back entrance, we need to go!"

Toran overlooked the brusque tone as they withdrew, heading to a place where the floor had been lifted up to reveal a tunnel. Initiates were dropping into it and disappearing into the darkness as they withdrew. Toran hurried to join them and as they prepared to jump Furion said, "Captain, where are we going? How are we going to fight this?"

For once Toran had absolutely no idea, he had never thought that this was possible. Events were happening fast now and they were fighting blind, all he had to rely upon was his training and his instincts. Toran replied, "First let's worry about getting out of here, then we will find a way to strike back."

Then he dropped into the tunnel and the darkness swallowed him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Domus Discordia Chapter 15**

Consciousness returned slowly, his thoughts sluggish and blunt. Sensations filtered in but only dimly and as if from a great distance. He seemed to be encased within something, hard and unyielding yet not unfamiliar; the sensation was actually rather comforting. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest, far larger and bulkier than nature intended and yet this too was comforting, a source of pride even. He couldn't see, all was darkness but there were noises present, faded and incoherent.

He was aware of all these things distantly, as if they were happening to someone else but despite that one thing remained unblemished: his diamond-hard will. He started dredging his mind, searching his memory for details. Point: he was an Astartes, sworn to serve the Emperor and His Imperium. Point: he was an Apothecary in the Storm Heralds Chapter. Point: his name was Memnos. Point: he had been injured in battle and was being hunted by his own Brothers.

That thought hit Memnos like a bucket of ice water over the head. Memories came back in a flood, rushing through him and bringing horror in their wake. He remembered his terrible discovery, his flight into the depths and being hunted in the dark. The fight below and his injury played out in his mind, followed by his emergency self-surgery and incapacitation. Yet all these things faded into insignificance compared to his mission: Gorgall, he had to reach Gorgall before it was too late.

Memnos sat up in a jerk and opened his eyes but was surprised by what he saw. He was not where he had been, he had been moved while unconscious to an unknown location. Memnos skipped over questions of why or how and moved straight on to tactical parameters. He appeared to be in a dormitory, ten slab-like beds laid out in a bare room. He was lying upon one of those beds but he was alone, no one else was present. Memnos looked down and was relieved to find that he was still in his armour. It was badly battered and scarred, he would have to soothe its noble Spirit at some point. Someone had reattached his breastplate and gone to the trouble of patching up the holes with armour-repair cement, that was a good sign. He still had his Narthecium but his weapons were missing, not a good sign.

With no danger present Memnos returned to the questions of where he was and why. He had been hunted, by those whom would show no mercy. If they had found him he would not have lived to tell his tale so the logical conclusion was that he had been found by someone not involved with the conspiracy. As to where he was that remained to be determined. Memnos swung his legs out of bed and jumped to his feet. His gut pulled slightly, the scar tissue being tight and restrictive over his abdomen. His wound would have killed a mortal man, even with surgical intervention it would have been a long and agonising recovery period but thanks to the Emperor, his enhanced physiology had restored him to full health.

It was a heady experience to survive such a wound, the power and vitality of his own body was intoxicating and part of the reason that all Astartes were such proud creatures, but Memnos dared not revel in it. To exult in one's own superiority was the path to arrogance and vanity; vices that Astartes should be above. Far too many had fallen to the Ruinous Powers for any warrior to be unwary of his own dark impulses, Memnos knew that duty, self-denial and fidelity were as essential to an Astartes as his armour and bolter.

Memnos reminded himself of the writings of the great Primarch Roboute Guilliman, 'They shall be pure of heart and strong of body, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self-aggrandisement'. By his count the conspirators in the Apothecarion had failed three of those four criteria, a damning verdict upon them all. As an afterthought he added to himself that he was damned lucky not to have ended up in a Sus-an-Membrane coma, in which case he would have required special chemical treatment in the Apothecarion.

Reminded of his mission Memnos walked over to the door and tried to open it. Unsurprisingly it was locked; it seemed his capturers did not trust him. A wise decision he would probably have taken himself. Impatiently Memnos banged on the door and then settled back to wait. After a minute the door opened and several warriors emerged. Memnos was surprised to be confronted by slender warriors, in light carapace armour, bearing shotguns. Scouts, he realised, he was in the scout-barracks. The Scout-Novices covered Memnos but made way for another warrior, one far more grizzled and boasting thick sideburns. Memnos started as he recognised this one's face, it was Scout-Sergeant Nimodes, a warrior he had campaigned with before. Nimodes was pure and true, if somewhat prone to treating everybody as an inexperienced novice, there was no way he would have truck with any conspiracies.

"Nimodes!" Memnos cried, "It is good to see you."

Nimodes for his part did not appear happy and he growled, "Memnos, you've set a vexing puzzle before us."

Memnos blinked at the frosty reception and said, "Brother-Sergeant, you know me. Do you not remember when we campaigned together?"

Nimodes growled, "I remember a loyal Brother and a stout-hearted warrior, if you are he remains to be seen."

Memnos eyed the shotguns pointing at him and asked, "Can you at least tell me how I came to be here?"

Nimodes shrugged and explained, "My Scout-novices were running training exercises when you popped up right in the middle of their combat zone. They nearly shot that cargo-lift to bits in surprise. We found you unconscious within, looking half-dead. We dragged you here so Tenth Captain Judio could decide what to do with you."

Memnos could tell the Scout-Sergeant was suspicious but he knew Nimodes was stalwart at heart. He had to convince the veteran that his cause was just and his need dire. He was out any options other than revealing all so Memnos drew in a breath and said, "I bring woeful tidings. There is a conspiracy afoot; the Chapter Master is in danger. Treason festers in the heart of our Chapter, they plot to assassinate Gorgall!"

Nimodes' face froze and he went pale as he said, "Your news comes too late, the hour is already past. Chapter Master Gorgall has been murdered."

For the first time in his life Memnos went weak at the knees, the words knocking the wind from him. The world shifted around him as he realised that the conspiracy had already struck. Gorgall was dead, who could stop Lessall now? Worse than that was the knowledge that his self-imposed mission had been unsuccessful. He had failed: an unforgivable eventuality for any Astartes.

Memnos felt his failure gnawing at his soul but refused to yield to despair. He glared and said, "I could not save Gorgall but I can avenge him."

Nimodes blinked, as if not expecting those words and said, "That may be more complicated than you think. You had better come and meet the Captain."

Nimodes turned and strode off, leaving Memnos to trail in his wake. The Scouts followed them, not quite pointing their shotguns at his back. Nimodes led the Apothecary out of the dormitory and across the Scout's barracks, larger than a normal facility with additional training spaces. As they waked Memnos saw hordes of youthful warriors running assault courses and practising their weapon drills. It all seemed so routine to him, so mundane. Didn't these youths know what was occurring outside their walls? How could they act like everything was normal?

Memnos held his tongue until he was led to a training dojo, where neophytes sparred in pairs on padded mats. They fought with fervour and zeal but little skill, a fact hammered home by shouting Scout-Sergeants who explicitly and at great length pointed out every mistake they made. Yet it was to a balcony looking over all this that Memnos was led and here stood Tenth Captain Judio.

The Master of Scouts was in full plate, bearing a Power Fist wrought with golden catechisms. His bald head was scarred and weathered and his expression was grim, one of his eyes framed by a vicious scar, the other a glaring orb. Judio turned as they approached and he said, "Nimodes, it seems you brought the prisoner. Yet I seem to recall giving instructions that he was not to be allowed out."

Nimodes bowed to his Captain and said, "Forgive my boldness but the Apothecary has information you should hear."

Judio spat, "If it's about the Chapter Master its' already too late. High Chaplain Samect and Chief Apothecary Lessall have issued a joint proclamation announcing Gorgall's tragic passing and they have named the assassin. The murderer is none other than that capricious knave, Third Captain Toran."

Memnos started and could not help but yell, "That's a lie!"

Judio fixed him with a glare and said, "What did you say?"

Memnos refused to be cowed and declared, "Brother-Captain, I have uncovered a conspiracy within the Apothecarion. There is a nefarious plot within our ranks, they conspired to ensure Gorgall's death. If there is a murderer in our ranks then it is not Captain Toran."

Judio barked suspiciously, "How do you know this?"

Memnos explained, "I have seen Lessall's own armour logs, his personal records. He tried to hide it but I uncovered the data by accident."

Judio scowled and said, "Naturally you entrusted these records to your own armour's spirit. To bring us proof of what you say."

"Well no," Memnos admitted, "I was discovered and they tried to silence me, I had to flee before I could copy it."

"Hardly surprising," Judio stated, "Lessall had something to say about you too, he claims you are mad. He says that you have the blood of Brothers on your hands and he calls for your immediate execution."

At this point Nimodes stepped in and said, "Captain, I know it sounds improbable but think of the situation. Who has most to gain from Gorgall's death other than the Emperor-worshippers? You heard the vox; they've already declared their 'True Believers' to have authority over all Storm Heralds."

Judio shook his head and snarled, "I won't have this argument again Nimodes, I know you urge us to oppose the Emperor-Worship but I tell you Tenth Company will have no part in this shameful struggle."

Memnos couldn't believe what he was hearing and shouted, "Wake up, this is no argument over philosophy anymore, it's a full-blown coup! Lessall, Samect and anyone who stands with them are seizing power, you can't stand aside any longer. They will not suffer any to oppose them, not anymore."

Nimodes agreed, "We already have reports of fighting in the Third Company barracks. Awfully fast don't you think, almost like these True Believers had it all planned out and were just waiting to make their move."

Judio stated stonily, "It is no concern of ours."

Memnos was pleading now, "If Third Company is fighting back then that means they weren't involved in the conspiracy, they must be pure and they may not be alone. Others will resist too, you could help them. Tenth Company could stand with the Third and avenge Gorgall's murder."

Judio shook his head and said, "Never, the Tenth is not getting involved. Besides I have never approved of Toran's elevation to Captain, he is far too clever for his own good, I wouldn't put anything past him."

Nimodes raised his voice to say, "But…"

"Not one more word," Judio spat, "Everybody is talking but I hear nothing save accusations and baseless allegations. All around us Brothers throw away their honour and dignity, neither side is any better than the other. Without hard evidence I will not lift a finger to help Toran or Lessall."

Nimodes was grim-faced as he said, "What are your orders?"

Judio commanded, "Take this one back to his quarters and make sure he stays there. I do not want anybody talking to him without my explicit permission."

Memnos felt rough hands grab his pauldrons and drag him back. He tried to struggle as pleaded, "Listen to me, it's not too late to change things! You have to believe me, just listen!"

But Judio had already turned away as the Apothecary was dragged off and Memnos knew that there was nothing he could do to change the Captain's mind. The Storm Heralds were about to rip themselves apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Domus Discordia Chapter 16**

The bolts flew past an inch from his helm, ripping the air apart as they spun in their deadly passage. They were swiftly followed by a flurry of rounds, all aimed right at his head but he wasn't there anymore. Reclusiarch Wrethan moved with lightning speed, diving behind a fallen statue for cover as the bolts chased him.

Wrethan was deep within the Fortress-Monastery, in one of the many avenues that ran through its interior. This was not one of the most glorious but it was still lined with ornate columns and many statues celebrating great heroes of the Chapter. Now it was acting as the stage for a battle. Wrethan risked a quick glance from his cover and saw a barricade ahead, behind which he could see a half-dozen golden helms. These were the Chapter's finest warriors, the most experienced of the Veterans. The warriors of the First Company, a squad of Sternguard and they were shooting at him.

Wrethan had been given the assignment of rounding up the scattered First Company, a supposed easy task now that they had no leader. Sadly these Veterans hadn't agreed with that assessment and they had decided to make a fight of it. A flurry of preternaturally accurate fire slammed into the statue, forcing Wrethan to duck back. The thick stone shook and quivered under the impacts and Wrethan recognised the signature whine of Vengeance rounds, the special bolts designed to break power armour with ease. These veterans really weren't holding back.

A flurry of movement distracted him and he saw the form of Eighth Captain Hakulo approach, diving into cover alongside him to sheltering from the incoming fusillade. He crouched low, holding his power spear in both hands. The bulky form of his jump pack barely fit into the cover and his Mark VI helm was engraved with the fanged maw of some exotic ocean predator.

Wrethan tried to speak over vox but Hakulo tapped the side of his helm and shouted over the noise, "Vox is down!"

Wrethan gathered himself and yelled, "What's wrong?"

"Don't know," Hakulo responded, "Some joker has filled every channel with a looped repetition of the March of the Primarchs anthem."

"Blasted Persion, this is what I get for not having him flogged," growled Wrethan, knowing of only one Brother who had the skills to cripple a vox-network.

"What?" Hakulo spat.

"Nothing," Wrethan demurred, "Tell me what we are going to do about this mess."

"I am doing something," Hakulo replied, "I am waiting them out."

Wrethan was surprised and said, "You're the Lord Executioner, shouldn't you be… executing something?"

Hakulo scoffed, "I have squads covering every exit, they are going nowhere. At the rate those Sternguard are burning through ammo they will be exhausted in minutes. Then we can simply walk over there and capture them."

Wrethan nodded, it wasn't glorious but it was certainly an effective plan. He said, "Good, I don't understand why they are fighting us. We are all Battle-Brothers; this should never have been allowed to escalate so."

Hakulo snorted, "Tell that to Seventh Company, Maxitio sent Tygra running with his tail tucked between his legs. Judio has turned the scout-barracks into a bunker and Toran's Third vanished down a secret tunnel that wasn't on any schematic. One I note they didn't bother to inform you about."

Wrethan knew that he should be offended by that fact; by the lack of trust he had been shown. He had lived and fought and bled alongside the Brothers of Third Company for years, he had been their spiritual counsellor, now it seemed that they had never truly trusted him. He knew he should be outraged; he should be cursing their cunning, so why was he feeling a faint sense of pride at their escape? He didn't know and he certainly didn't want to admit that a part of him was hoping that they didn't get caught.

"Dishonour and perfidy on all sides," Wrethan spat but he wasn't entirely sure who he was talking about.

Hakulo remarked, "Well they won't get far, the True Believers have this whole island locked down. We control the armouries, the gunship landing bays, the docks, the defences and the external vox-arrays."

Wrethan shook his skull-helm and said, "This is spiralling out of control. Companies fighting each other, Veteran squads running riot across the Fortress-Monastery, its insanity. We chose to join the True Believers to unite this Chapter, put an end to our divisions, not rip us apart. How many decades have we spent planning this, for it all to fall apart now?"

Hakulo spat, "Blood has already been shed, Gorgall's for one."

Wrethan remarked, "I still can't believe he is dead, how could Toran do this?"

Hakulo turned his helm to stare at the Reclusiarch and said, "How certain are you about that?"

Wrethan didn't follow and said, "What do you mean?"

Hakulo paused and then said, "Things are getting complicated and it's easy to be led astray. Matters are moving fast but the True Believers seemed more than ready to act the second Gorgall fell. Who's to say what really happened?"

Wrethan didn't like the sound of that and said, "But the evidence…"

Hakulo remarked, "You know Toran better than I, does any of this seem like him? That pict-record certainly looked like him but did it act like him? Did it move like him? I've seen him training and his fighting style is completely different to what we were shown… frankly he's nowhere near as good as the image we saw."

Wrethan was really confused now and said, "What are you saying?"

"I am saying," Hakulo began but then there was a thunderous roar and both their heads snapped up. What they saw took Wrethan's breath away; charging down the avenue was the unmistakeable sight of High Chaplain Samect with his Crozius raised high. He was running towards the Sternguard, accompanied by a squad of his most devoted Proctors, his Reclusiam Command Squad. They raced towards the Sternguard, crying their devotion aloud, as fine a charge as Wrethan had ever seen.

A hail of Vengeance rounds came to greet them but they deflected away from Samect's conversion field, unable to penetrate the Holy protection generated by his Rosarius. His Proctors were not so lucky and three of them went down in sprays of blood, great holes blasted through them. Samect was undaunted however and charged on, leaping the barricade in one bound, already swinging his Crozius.

Thunderous and lightning flashed as the sacred weapon swung left and right, blasting a Sternguard down with each stroke. A second later the Proctors joined him, piling into battle with hymnals upon their lips. Wrethan and Hakulo needed no orders; they rose from cover and charged forth, eager to join the fray.

Yet by the time Wrethan reached the barricade it was all over. He saw fallen Sternguard strewn everywhere, broken and bleeding whilst Samect stood over them, his Crozius blazing with power. Wrethan saw the broken bodies were torn and rent apart and he felt a wave of nausea rise. It wasn't the shocking violence and brutality, he was a Space Marine, such things were a part of his nature. It wasn't even the sight of ruptured organs and spilled entrails; he had seen and done far worse himself.

What truly distressed Wrethan was that these were Storm Heralds, his Brothers and comrades-in-arms. They were of the same order, born of the same gene-line and training regime. These Brothers had laboured as he had, passed every test and trial, suffering the same hardships and strife. But for the smallest twist of fate they would have fought together against the direst of foes, spilling their life-blood for each other in the name of Brotherhood. It was conditioned at the deepest level that they should fight for one another, a bond that should be unbreakable. To see these warriors cast down by those who also called themselves Storm Heralds was fundamentally wrong. It struck at every ideal Wrethan had ever held.

As they sprinted nearer Wrethan saw several of the Sternguard were down but not dead, their Transhuman bodies trying to piece themselves back together. Wrethan cast an eye over their Heraldry and saw the litany of deeds, a proclamation of the heroism of these Brothers. He also saw their Sergeant's name, Brother Icarim.

Hakulo slowed to a slow pace and called, "Well fought High Chaplain, more prisoners for the cells."

However Samect snarled, "Prisoners? I think not."

Wrethan was surprised by the vehemence in the High Chaplain's tone and he asked, "What are you ordering?"

Samect spat, "These filth have spilt the blood of True Believers, they must die."

Hakulo stopped in his tracks and said, "Our orders were to capture any dissenters, not kill them."

Angrily Samect hissed, "Do not be weak; you knew this would come to bloodshed. Our feet were set upon this path long ago; we cannot falter now, not at the last hurdle. Everything is within our grasp, but only if we are strong enough to seize it. "

As the Proctors hauled the Sternguard warriors to their knees Wrethan protested, "High Chaplain, are we not meant to be the leaders of these Marines, their guides and shepherds? You yourself said they would be given every chance to convert to the true faith."

Despite being forced into a kneeling position and having his helm wrenched off Brother Icarim spat, "Save it, we would rather die than submit to scum like you."

Samect raised his arms and proclaimed, "From their own lips they are condemned. They reject the Divine-Emperor and mark themselves out as Heretics. There can be no mercy for dissenters, no leniency in our judgement upon disbelievers. Our devotion to Him on Terra demands no less than total commitment. Now Reclusiarch, do your duty."

Wrethan's jaw dropped and he said, "Excuse me?"

Samect fixed him with a glare and said, "Execute them Wrethan, kill them now."

Time slowed around Wrethan and it seemed like the colour was draining from the world as the realisation of what he was being ordered to do sank in. Sounds suddenly seemed to be coming from far away and his own body felt detached from him somehow. As if from a great distance he heard Hakulo hiss, "Don't do it," but his legs were already in motion.

It felt like he was watching someone else entering the scene, seeing his body move without his volition or free-will. Like some thespian in a dramaturgic play Wrethan watched himself move forward and he told himself that these Marines had chosen their fate, not him. He had a part to play in the True Believers and he could no more turn aside from it than a Servitor could disobey its programming. Wrethan elevated his arm, lifting his Crozius and his lips moved to spill the lines given to him, "I offer you one last chance to convert."

Icarim was being forced to kneel by two Proctors but he still jerked his head to spit acidic salvia upon Werethan's boot. As the acid sizzled upon the Ceramite a voice cried in Wrethan's mind for him to stop, a part of his soul cried out for him to turn away but he ignored it. This was his role, the part he had chosen for himself. He had been rehearsing this role all his life and he couldn't falter now. These Marines before him had made their own choice, he told himself, this was the inevitable consequence.

Wrethan raised his arm and a voice in his mind screamed in denial, but he suppressed it. These were not Brothers they were Heretics, he told himself. He had slain Heretics before, this would be no different. Then his arm fell, smiting Icarim's skull in one mighty blow. Light and thunder erupted as the golden mace crushed Icarim's head, spraying blood over Wrethan and staining red smears upon the black plate covering his arms. The body fell and Wrethan mechanically moved onto the next kneeling warrior and the next. He smote each of them in turn, leaving their corpses to fall unregarded.

Finally the deed was done and Samect proclaimed, "Let this be a lesson, any who do not join the True Believers are our enemies!"

Wrethan felt utterly numb, he could only stare at the blood staining his arms as he said, "They are dead."

Samect proudly affirmed, "These are but the first, more shall resist but you shall show them the same mercy. Do not hesitate Reclusiarch, they are weak, they deserve it."

Wrethan heard the words but they did not sink in for he was lost in a dark fog of confusion and uncertainty. For the first time Wrethan knew doubt and in his mind a voice he did not recognise cried, "What have I done?!"


	17. Chapter 17

**Domus Discordia Chapter 17**

The monument sat before him, a long stretch of black marble threaded with delicate silver veins. It was twice as high as an Astartes and ran for hundreds of metres, a free-standing wall of dark stone. At one end was carved a short list of names, brave warriors who had perished in the most noble of battles. Any Space Marine could expect to die in heroic fashion but to have one's name carved here an Astartes must have truly excelled, beyond the standards demanded by even that mighty breed. This was the Rock of Heroes and it was the most sacred memorial of the Storm Heralds.

This was not the original of course; the first monument had been lost in the Chaos invasion. Turned into an improvised trap to bleed the foe. Even the temple it was located in had been demolished, an entirely new edifice being erected to replace it. Standing in that temple was Captain Toran, quietly reading the names as he brooded on the past and the future. Third Company had slipped out of their barracks and blown the tunnel behind them. They had not run after that, Astartes did not flee, but their tactical withdrawal had been rather rapid. Toran had led his Company in a merry dance through the Fortress-Monastery, the vast construction so layered in levels and passages that even a Battle-Company could disappear in its myriad ways. They had been aided greatly by Persion's skills, his defilement of the vox-net making their pursuer's hunt futile.

After a full day of evasion Toran had led his squads to the surface and brought them here, then sent them out to recon the area. The Captain was all too aware that he was waging a war that he had never expected to fight. He had no plans for this, no stratagems prepared. He desperately needed more intel to formulate a proper response, which was just a fancy way of saying that he had no idea what to do.

He had come here to be alone with his misgiving and to think through his muddle of doubts. Toran's musing was interrupted by a heavy footfall behind him and he half-turned to see Sergeant Furion entering the temple. Even under his Mark III helm his anger shimmered off him, but that ire was tightly controlled and subservient to his will. Furion's fury was focussed and honed like a scalpel, not a frothing cauldron of rage.

Furion marched over and called, "Captain, there you are. What are you doing here?"

Toran returned his gaze to the names before him and said, "I am remembering the dead."

Furion looked at the names and read aloud, "Sergeant Priyar and his squad."

"I carved those names myself," Toran commented, "Noble Brothers who died well, would that we had been so blessed."

Solemnly Furion stated, "Priyar would have wept had he lived to see what has become of the Storm Heralds."

Toran said softly, "Some say that battle was my finest victory but that is a lie. I didn't win that battle, Priyar and his squad did. It was their courage and sacrifice that turned the tide."

Furion fixed Toran with a glare and said, "Captain, a question if I may… do you intend to win this?"

Toran's head snapped around and he growled, "What do you say?!"

"Permission to speak freely," Furion asked and when the nod came said, "Captain, you seem to be lacking your usual zeal. Your fire burns low and I don't see your customary brilliance."

Toran realised Furion was right, he wasn't himself and he lamented, "We are fighting our own blood here. Storm Herald against Storm Herald, it is wrong in every respect."

Furion shook his head and said, "If you think that way we have already lost. The Initiates can't see you doubting yourself or our cause. They need to believe that we are the righteous and our foes are the sinners. They need to see that you believe this cause is worthy of fighting and dying for."

Toran sighed, "Well that's a problem, I am not sure I can lead my Marines against their own blood."

"What of Gorgall?" Furion pressed, "Cut down in cold-blood."

"Gorgall," Toran growled, his anger rising at the thought of his dead Chapter Master, "They killed him, those filth murdered him!"

Furion pressed him, "Are you prepared to let Gorgall go unavenged? Are you willing to let his murderers tell everybody that you committed their crimes and let them walk free?"

"Never!" Toran spat, "Lessall and Samect…I shall break them both and they will pay for what they have done!"

"That's more like it," Furion declared, "Now let our Brothers see that fire and we will emerge triumphant once again."

Toran blinked, his melancholy gone like a dark cloud on the wind as his zeal for victory returned. He looked up at his stalwart Brother and remarked, "Furion, ever stalwart and true. My moral compass, what would I do without you?"

Furion cocked his head and said, "Let's not worry about that, you have a Company to lead."

Toran nodded and together they walked out of the temple into the dark of night, finding the squads returning from their recon expeditions. The Brothers were alert and on guard, as a Space Marine always was, but to an experienced eye their caution and diffidence were clear. They were milling about aimlessly, unsure of their purpose and unclear as to what they were about to do. Toran knew he had to change that and walked towards them as he called, "Company, give me your eyes."

The squads turned to face him and Toran drew in a breath to say, "My Brothers, you all know the situation. We are beset by treachery and surrounded by foes on all sides, but we are not beaten yet. We still stand and so long as one of us draws breath the fight is not over."

From the crowd the voice of Novak called, "Captain, are we really going to attack our own kin?"

Toran looked about at the assembled squads and saw uncertainty and indecision everywhere. Just like him these Brothers were unsettled by the thought of attacking their own blood, they would hesitate to fight other Storm Heralds and in the coming battles even a second of reluctance would cost them dear. Just as Furion had done for him Toran knew he needed to remind these Space Marines of the righteousness of their cause. He needed them to believe that this was not a fight that had been dumped upon them but was one that demanded their conviction. He needed to convince them that everything they held dear hung in the balance.

Toran drew in a breath and proclaimed, "Brothers, I see the misgivings in your eyes and I know you have no wish to become kin-slayers. It does you credit but today we must fight. This is not a war we would have sought, it is not one any of us wished for, but we will not shirk from our duty! We are pledged to the service of the Emperor and the defence of His Imperium. The Primarch Roboute Guilliman wrote that we shall be the protectors of humanity, but these 'True Believers' spit upon his teachings. Now more than ever the Imperium needs its champions but these filth conspire to stab it in the back! They seek to build their own empire and crown themselves as kings. They have abandoned all that we hold dear in the name of self-aggrandisement. They cannot be allowed to prevail!"

Furion stepped up and called loudly, "Will we stand idly by while those curs tear down the honour of the Storm Heralds?"

As one the assembled ranks cried, "Never!"

Toran raised his voice to shout, "Who will stand for Terra and the memory of Roboute Guilliman?!"

Loudly and with pride Third Company cried, "We will!"

Then from the crowd another voice arose, it was Bylan and he hefted the Banner high as he yelled, "+Primarch's Own!+"

Before Toran knew what was happening the cry was taken up by everyone and all voices cried aloud, "Primarch's Own! Primarch's Own! Primarch's Own!"

Toran hadn't intended that but he saw that it was putting the fire back in his Marine's eyes. The rallying cry was a reminder of their heritage and legacy, evoking their connection to their gene-sire. The Storm Heralds revered their Primarch second only to the Emperor and to uphold his teachings was a cause they would fight and die for. Besides, Toran thought to himself, Lessall and Samect had their 'True Believers', his side needed a rallying cry every bit as potent.

Toran let the cheers ring for a minute then called, "To your posts and stand-by for new orders. We will move soon, in the meantime Command Squad to me."

As the squads eagerly broke up Toran gathered his closest comrades and said, "So we are ready to fight but we need a plan. What did the recon parties find?"

Jediah stated, "The Librarian's tower is ringed with guards, there's no way to get to them or the Astropaths."

"So much for recalling Phalros and Ninth Company," Novak lamented, "The same is true of the Thunderhawks bays and the docks, every way off this island is blocked."

"We aren't running anywhere," Toran stated, "What of the armouries, we could use some heavy firepower right now."

Bylan sadly said, "+All held by the True Believers. The Forges are in lockdown too, the Techmarines are determined to keep out of this fight+"

"Not all is lost," Furion said, "Recon parties report fighting across the Fortress-Monastery. First Company battles on as does Seventh. If we could link up with them we could create a potent force."

"Persion," Toran asked, "Can you reach anybody?"

Persion shook his head and said, "It's taking everything I've got to screw up their vox-net but they are replaying the favour. We have only short-range vox, anything longer-ranged is scrambled."

Toran accepted this but said, "We can't let them form a coordinated response, if they can bring everything they have to bear at once we are doomed. Can you keep them from re-establishing a vox-net?"

Persion snorted, "They're good, but I'm better. They won't hear anything but static."

Suddenly Jediah's head came about and he stated, "What's this?"

Toran peered to the side and saw a pair of Initiates escorting a warrior towards them, one not of Third Company. He bore ornate Artificer armour and a golden power axe at his belt while his faceplate was formed into soaring eagle's wings. An Honour Guard, one of the Chapter's most elite veterans and the late Gorgall's most trusted retainers.

The sight made Toran's think, Honour Guards were respected and esteemed by all. To have even one on his side would lend great weight to their cause, if he could gather more then the Primarch's Own might even stand a chance against the True Believers. Toran stepped forward to greet this warrior but he did not bother to ask his name, Storm Herald tradition demanded that Honour Guards surrendered their names and identities when they donned the eagle masks. Instead Toran called, "Welcome esteemed warrior, it does our hearts glad to see you."

The Honour Guard pulled up short and his escorts stood by him as he said, "Captain Toran, so it is you. When I saw Third Company warriors sniffing about I thought they would lead me to you but I did not expect you to be standing here so brazenly."

Toran noted the gruffness of this warrior's tone but then the Honour Guard had suffered much, a little brusqueness was to be expected. Toran stepped closer and said, "We welcome you among us, your presence gives us heart. We need every weapon for the cause."

"I am not here for your cause," the Honour Guard stated, "I am here to discharge my duty."

"Duty?" Toran asked in confusion, "What duty?"

"The duties of my order," the Honour Guard explained, "We do more than vouchsafe the life of the Chapter Master. We safeguard the principles and ideals of the Chapter itself. One of those is that should the Chapter Master be slain, then we are sworn to enact vengeance upon his murderer."

Toran's jaw dropped but before he could act the Honour Guard leapt into action. His arms flew out and knocked his escorts away with unearthly strength then with a speed even Transhumans found to be blinding he drew his axe and flung himself at the Captain. Toran gasped in alarm and all he could see was the golden axe hurtling towards him as the cry rang in his ears, "Gorgall shall be avenged!"


	18. Chapter 18

**Domus Discordia Chapter 18**

The golden axe came hurtling at Toran's head, its energised edge making the air hiss as it descended. The speed and precision of the blow was as breath-taking as a thunderbolt. It was a strike that would surely end his life, yet Toran was already in motion. With Transhuman speed Toran had thrown himself backwards the second he saw the Honour Guard move and the axe missed his helm by an inch.

Toran fell back as a follow-up blow came but this time he was ready. Without conscious thought his relic blade was in his hands and he parried the strike. The clang of metal on metal rung forth, accompanied by the crackle of two conflicting disruption fields, the weapons themselves fighting for supremacy. The two warriors were in close confines now, too close for the surrounding crowd to shoot, lest they hit their own Captain.

Toran hastily parried another blow as the Honour Guard pursued him, all the while struggling to understand the situation. Honour Guards were the Chapter's most elite warriors, chosen from the ranks of the First Company. They were superlative warriors but also paragons of virtue. To be an Honour Guard one had to possess peerless honour, an unblemished soul and an uncompromising dedication to the ideals of the Chapter. That was why they abandoned their names, so they could become living exemplars of all that was best about the Storm Heralds.

Toran realised that this elite warrior truly believed that he had killed Gorgall and that he had to convince him otherwise. The Captain parried another blow and shouted, "Cease your attacks! I did not kill Gorgall!"

His opponent yelled, "Spare me your lies, I have seen the recording!"

Toran saw Novak preparing to leap into the fray but he called out, "No, hold back, that is an order. This is between us!"

His opponent swung wide as he snarled, "Honour from a butcher, more than I expected."

Toran feinted left then struck right but the blow was effortlessly repulsed as he shouted, "It is those perfidious True Believers, they did this. I can stop them but you have to believe me!"

The Honour Guard countered with a blow that nearly took off Toran's head as he barked, "Never, you and your wretched Primarch's Own shall die for your crimes!"

Toran side-stepped another blow as he yelled, "I did not murder him!"

But the Honour Guard would not relent and cried, "For Gorgall!"

Toran desperately backpedalled, fending off a flurry of strikes. The warrior was good: fast, strong and skilled, every bit Toran's equal if not better. It was taking all the Captain's skill just to stay alive and he was growing increasingly aware that his chances of winning this were diminishing fast.

All around Initiates waited, yearning to intervene but forbidden by his order. Toran knew that he could call upon them at any moment but he denied the impulse. This Honour Guard was a valiant and courageous warrior, a paragon of the Chapter, unsullied by the sins of the True Believers. Toran refused to countenance ordering his men to shoot such a Marine in the back.

At that moment fate intervened, a loose bit of stone skittering under the Honour Guard's boot, throwing him off-balance for a heartbeat. Toran witnessed the miniscule opening and in that instant saw his chance to end this. With one thrust Toran could kill his attacker and carve out his foe's hearts.

Yet Toran didn't move, instead letting the moment pass unseized. In his hearts he knew this warrior was acting out of accordance with his duty, compelled to act by his sworn oaths. If Toran struck down a Brother who was innocent of wrong-doing, if he killed a paragon of honour like this then he would damn himself. Toran truly would be a murderer and every ideal he clung to would be lost.

The Honour Guard regained his balance and gripped his axe firmly saying, "You should have killed me."

Toran backed off a pace and said, "No, I will not kill a Brother for following the call of honour."

The Honour Guard advanced snarling, "A mistake murderer."

Toran saw then that there were only two ways this could end. Either he died here or he killed a Brother who had committed no sin, in which case he was no better than murderers who had slain Gorgall. Toran refused to accept that, he would rather die than become like them. There was only one way to change that fate, he had to do the unthinkable and risk all.

Slowly Toran lowered his guard, opening his arms wide as he said, "I will not fight you."

The Honour Guard froze and he said warily, "This is a trick, you seek to ensnare me."

Toran shook his head and declared, "No, I am trying to save you, to save all Storm Heralds. We are fighting for more than our lives, more than territory or glory. This is a war of ideals, of the principles that underpin our every deed. We are fighting to save the spirit of our Chapter itself! You are the finest exemplar of those ideals, sworn to uphold everything that is best about us, but if you cut down an innocent Brother then you forsake it all. If one such as you could fall, then the Storm Heralds are already beyond saving."

The Honour Guard shook his head and said, "You seek to twist my mind."

Toran gazed at the Honour Guard, this exemplar of all his Chapter's virtues looking so confused and the Captain made a decision. Toran turned his blade around and in one movement sheathed the weapon, leaving himself defenceless.

Everybody gasped and Furion gasped, "What are you doing?!"

"Hold, nobody intervene!" Toran shouted then addressed his opponent saying, "No tricks, no traps, I will not resist you. But know this, the True Believers are winning and the spirit of our Chapter is being consumed by darkness. I refuse to let that happen and I refuse to sink to their level, so I am choosing to trust you. You must decide whether to believe me or to cut me down and let the darkness win. I place my life and the future of our Chapter into your hands."

The Honour Guard stepped back in amazement and exclaimed, "What is this, what do you say?!"

Toran gazed at him steadily and said, "Choose Brother, choose the future of us all."

Awed silence fell and everybody stared in shock as they waited to see what would happen next. Toran himself didn't know what his opponent would do, would the Honour guard heed his words? Would he accept the truth of Toran's intent or would he strike? Toran could not draw his weapon in time to prevent it; if the Honour Guard sought to end his life, then he would die here. The air stirred around them, like wind in a graveyard and the Honour Guard stood unmoving as the seconds crawled by.

Then at last he responded, his hand opened and his golden axe fell to the dirt as he exhaled, "No butcher could talk like this, no murderer would dare."

Totally unexpectedly the Honour Guard fell to his knees before Toran, sending up a cloud of dust as he gasped, "I was a blind fool, forgive me."

Toran hastily stepped forward and placed his hands upon the Honour Guard's pauldrons saying aloud for all to hear, "There is nothing to forgive, not when one acts out of duty and with honour foremost in their mind. Let no man here doubt this warrior's valour or devotion. Were every Storm Herald half as noble, then this war would never have occurred. Rise and stand among us as an equal."

But the Honour Guard shook his head saying, "I must have a master to serve. Your hearts are true Captain Toran. I pledge allegiance to you, I am yours to command."

Toran felt a heady rush flow through him, to command the Honour Guard was a privilege reserved only for the Chapter Master; no mere Captain could compel them. For a second Toran saw himself commanding a force of the Chapter's most elite warriors, leading them to cast down the True Believers. He would grind Lessall and Samect into the dust and make this Chapter righteous once more. Toran would be enthroned in glory, hailed as the master of all he surveyed, able to make his will a reality with but a word.

Then Toran shook off the conceit; it was vain, it was prideful and such covetousness shamed him. Such thoughts had led the True Believers astray and he refused to walk the same path they had. Toran had sworn to fight and die for the principles he believed in: duty, honour, integrity and humble service.

Toran declined saying, "I am but a Captain, it is not fit that you kneel before me."

The Honour Guard looked up to say, "I don't understand."

Everybody watched in rapt amazement as Toran explained, "I do not ask for your submission, all I ask of you is that you follow the conviction of your hearts. To do that which you know to be righteous and speak the truth."

The Honour Guard bowed his head in acceptance and said, "I shall my Lord, I shall travel from this place and tell all I encounter that Toran of the Third, is no murderer. All shall hear the real truth of what has transpired and grasp the perfidy of the True Believer's crimes. When the time comes my order, and any of the First Company I can find, shall fight alongside you. We would be proud to be counted amongst the Primarch's Own."

Toran graciously accepted this and said, "With Space Marines such as you by our side, how could we possibly fail?"

The Honour Guard scooped up his weapon and then stood, before saying, "Know this, the accursed True Believers shall rue the day they forsook our honour. And I, Brother Artac, shall enact such a vengeance as to make them weep."

Toran was stunned by the tribute done unto him, to know an Honour Guard's name was unheard of for any save the Chapter Master. He had been exalted indeed and he said, "Follow your hearts, when the time comes we shall fight together and wrest this Chapter back from the abyss."

Artac saluted with the sign of the Aquila and turned on his heel to march away. The gathered squads watched him go in silent amazement and then when he disappeared they spontaneously erupted into deafening cheers. The throng of warriors gathered around their Captain, clapping him on the pauldrons and punching their fists into the air as they roared triumphantly. Toran was jostled and buffeted by the crowd of applauding warriors, hemmed in on all sides and just this once he let the lack of discipline slide.

Bylan was by his side yelling, "+That was amazing, the most gallant thing I have ever seen!+"

"I never thought I would see the day!" Novak shouted, "How did you know that would work?"

Toran didn't want to admit that he hadn't been sure; he had taken a huge gamble but a necessary one. He knew he needed to rally those opposed to the True Believers and he had counted upon the peerless honour of the elite warrior to sway him. Toran kept that to himself as he yelled, "Enough, everybody enough! You give me too much credit and there's still the little matter of having a war to win. Everybody form up in squads and prepare to deploy, we move out in two minutes!"

Still celebrating the squads dispersed, resuming their lines of battle as they wondered at what they had just seen. As they moved out Furion stepped closer and whispered so none would hear, "Captain, that was an immense risk. What were you thinking?"

Toran confided, "I know it was dangerous but I had to chance it. If I couldn't convince one such as him of the truth, then how could I persuade anyone else? Besides we both know we can't win this without reinforcements, now we can count upon the most steadfast of allies."

From the side Jediah spoke up, he alone didn't sound impressed by what he had seen as he said, "So, where are we going?"

Toran raised his voice for all to hear as he announced, "We head west, where Maxitio and Seventh Company fight on alone. We shall join with them and form a united front, then together we shall teach these True Believers the error of their ways."


	19. Chapter 19

**Domus Discordia Chapter 19**

The Librarian's tower rang with noise and activity, a frantic hive of activity and industry. Even now teams of serfs went about their daily business tending to their never-ending duties. Wizened scribes diligently tended to the Librarium, artificers worked upon their master's armour while menials tended to more mundane duties. High above the lex-savants continued deciphering messages, while far below the dreaded Black Sentinels patrolled the sealed vaults of the Bibliotheca Damnatorum.

Outside the tower were rings of guards, masses of the True Believers. The tower contained the only means of communicating off-world and they were determined to prevent that. What was occurring here in the Fortress-Monastery was for their eyes alone and they would suffer no outsiders to know what passed here. Yet all this paled into insignificance compared to what was happening at the very top of the tower. In the penultimate level, where the Librarians housed their apartments, all the lesser members of their order were debating the situation in a robust exchange of views.

"You half-witted, grox-dung brained Fethwipe!" the shout came. Arvael heard the words and they incensed him, he looked across the floor to where Codicier Wela was stood and shouted back, "And you are a blinkered idiot!"

The pair were standing before a gathering of their mutual brethren, all them looking angry and resentful. They were dressed in their robes of office, emblazoned with their various specialities. The Librarians looked on as the pair argued, watching and keeping their counsel to themselves as they listened.

Wela drew in an angry breath and yelled, "You can't be serious!"

Arvael scowled and retorted, "Haven't you seen what's happening out there?! Our Chapter fights itself! Battles rage across the island. Brother attacks Brother, friend fights friend, it is intolerable. We have to get out there and intervene."

"You want us to go out there and fight against the True Believers?" Wela snorted and said, "That is madness!"

Arvael growled angrily, "What would you have us do, stay here like cowards?!"

Wela retorted, "No I would have us go out there and join with Lessall and Samect."

"Join them?" Arvael gasped, "What insanity is this?"

Wela turned to their brethren and proclaimed, "Who here doesn't agree with them? The Imperium is rotten to the core, it's a diseased and withered thing, don't look so shocked, we all know it to be true. Now it collapses at last, whether we will it or not. The time of the High Lords is finished, the time has come for a new order to rise."

"You speak Heresy," Arvael growled.

Wela shook his head and said, "Watch your tone, such talk will see you swatted down child. The True Believers have it right, we Astartes should take up the mantle of leadership. We should build a new empire, one which is strong enough to fulfil the Emperor's vision."

"And do what?" Arvael snapped, "Set ourselves up as kings, rule over mankind with an iron fist? It is against every teaching of the Primarch!"

"Don't give me that," Wela sneered, "The Primarch built Ultramar, a kingdom where Astartes ruled justly and well. Five hundred worlds; all prosperous, moral and strong. I've never understood why he allowed it to be dismantled. It should have become the template for the whole galaxy, a model for how mankind should be governed."

Arvael spat back, "That is lunacy, the Emperor made the Astartes to fight, to defend mankind. We were never intended to be rulers."

Wela cried, "Where has that kind of thinking led humanity? The galaxy is being torn apart, Chaos is in the ascendant! We need to change, we need a whole new approach to everything!"

Arvael spat, "How would you accomplish that? Overthrow the Imperium, set ourselves up in its place, grind mankind under our heel as we enthrone ourselves!"

"Don't be facetious," Wela snarled, "We can hardly do worse than the Imperium has. What has it wrought save suffering, misery and death. We will be far better rulers than those cowering, wretched High Lords!"

"And how many will die as we build this empire?!" Arvael cried, "Where is your honour?"

Wela snorted, "That is Initiate thinking, perfectly happy to slaughter millions on the battlefield yet refusing to countenance murder in the dark. Open your eyes, how many innocents die every time we drop Magma bombs on a city? How many bystanders have we killed to reach one Heretic?"

Arvael was incensed by the slur on his Chapter's honour and he snarled, "I won't let you do this!"

Wela growled, "How will you stop me whelp?"

Arvael felt a chill run down his spine and he sensed the ethereal tang of Warp energies. Sure enough Wela was shimmering with power and flames sprang forth from his palms, blazing red and white and broiling with heat. Wela slammed his palms together and formed the fire into a solid form, a sword made of fire held in his grip.

Gasps arose from the assembled Librarians at this flagrant abuse of power but Arvael was responding in kind. He opened the locks in his mind and allowed the energies of the Warp to flow, he channelled them through his mental architecture and moulded them with his will. Over his left arm formed a shimmering Kine shield and in his left he forged a blade of pure Telekinetic might. The pair faced off, neither willing to back down and then Wela spat, "Prepare to…"

Sudden an immense wind blew up from nowhere, a hurricane blast erupting from nothing and making eyes water with its intensity. The gale slammed into the assembled Librarians and sent them reeling, blowing them off their feet to skid across the floor like leaves in a storm. Arvael felt himself being picked up and slammed into a wall, his bones rattling from the force of the impact. He struggled to move but the wind pinned to the wall, holding him firmly in its grip and even his Transhuman strength could not overcome the unnatural gale. He stared into the hurricane, eyes watering, as he sought out its source and what he saw filled him with dread. Standing at the base of the stairs was none other than Chief Librarian Echeb, with a furious expression. His robes were thrashing around him but he stood firm and unmoving, his eyes blazing with Aetheric energies and his face was smeared with ashes.

Echeb took in the scene before him and bellowed, "What is this?!" then he snapped off the wind, letting the Librarians fall. Arvael hit the floor, his chin impacting the tiles to snap his teeth down hard upon his tongue. That was nothing though, not compared shame he felt inside, the thought of what he had been about to do shocking himself. To use the Warp so flagrantly and brazenly was perilous beyond measure and he should have known better. Arvael hastily got to his knees and lowered his head in shame, as did the other Librarians. Echeb looked over the kneeling circle of Psykers and hissed angrily, "Explain yourselves."

Wela dared to say, "We were debating the situation outside the tower, things got heated and we…"

Echeb cut him off snarling, "If the next words out of your mouths are not some form of contrition then this will end badly for you all."

Arvael gulped and hurriedly said, "We lost our heads, we offer apologies."

Echeb's gaze passed over them all, fierce and uncompromising, then he said, "Follow me."

Echeb led the shamefaced Librarians up the staircase to his own apartment. Inside Arvael saw that the many tables had been cleared to the side, leaving a clear space. In that space was nothing but a small bowl filled with ashes. Echeb sank down and sat cross-legged before that bowl and the Librarians instinctively sat in a semi-circle before him.

Echeb's eyes passed over them and then he said, "Do you see what is occurring outside?"

Arvael dared to say, "The True Believers are isolating all opposition and cutting off those who would oppose them. They are…"

Echeb cut him off saying, "What I see is confusion, folly, pride and ignorance. Our Chapter's spirit is being rent in two by those fools and they do not even see it."

Weal spoke up to say, "Surely we could do something about that."

Echeb raised an eyebrow and said, "Do what, march out there and throw fireballs around? Tear the weapons from our Brothers hands with our thoughts and force them to stop fighting?"

That actually sounded rather good to Arvael and he said, "Well, why not?"

"Wisdom and knowledge," Echeb replied sternly, "We must never forget the difference. Knowledge is being able to do a thing; wisdom is understanding when you should not do it."

Arvael protested, "But surely we could change everything, with our power we could end this terrible fighting!"

"And then?" Echeb questioned.

Arvael was dumbstuck and spluttered, "And then.. what?"

"What will we do next?" Echeb said, "Once we have used our abilities to make both sides lay down their arms, how will we keep them from picking them up again? Should we spy upon them in secret? Rewrite their minds if we do not like what we find? Make them ask for our permission before being allowed to march to war?"

Arvael gasped at the very notion and said, "Surely it won't come to that."

Echeb shook his head and explained, "To be a Psyker is a slippery slope. One wrong step, even for the best of reasons, would start us down a path there could be no turning back from. If we intervene then we set ourselves up as the true masters of this Chapter, we place the power of the Warp above free will."

Arvael struggled to grasp this and said, "But just this once…"

Echeb replied firmly, "Then all would know we are the true authority in this Chapter. Any future Chapter Master would have to look over his shoulder every time he made a decision, wondering if we would overturn his choices. Everybody would know he was living on our sufferance, only ruling so long as we allowed it. This Chapter would be under our power, which means it would under the power of the Warp. We cannot allow that, not now, not ever."

Wela protested, "But they are fighting out there! Brothers have died, Gorgall has died!"

"The actions of fools and fanatics," Echeb growled "They are to be pitied, not emulated. We should mourn their folly, not join it. I have sat here and wept over their idiocy, I mark myself with ashes and mourn that this tragedy has come to pass."

Arvael could hear the wisdom in his Master's words but a part of him refused to acknowledge it as he said, "But we have to do something!"

"No," Echeb said firmly, "We must not, by the codes of our order, we must not interfere."

"But we at least make both sides stop fighting," Arvael protested, "With our power we could at least impose a ceasefire and then let them sort out this mess."

"Would you do that Arvael?" Echeb queried, "Would you use the Warp to force your Brothers into submission?"

Arvael heard the words and they struck to the core of him. He knew Echeb was right, if the Librarians marched out there and used the Warp to stop the fighting then all would know that they were the ultimate authority. How could any future Master pass judgements if he had one eye upon the Librarians? Use the Warp, even once, to impose their will upon their Brothers and it would be they whom ruled this Chapter. The librarians would be in control, which in turn meant the Storm Heralds would be under the control of the Warp.

Arvael couldn't let that happen, the first and most important duty of the Librarians was to guard against the Warp, to use it to impose their rule over others was the worst form of Heresy. Every one of their teachings and doctrines forbade it. Using the Warp to overturn the will of others was unacceptable, especially in matters of the heart. Their Brothers must be allowed to find their own solution to this crisis, the alternative was far too terrible to contemplate. Arvael realised that it was not that the Librarians could not intervene but that they should not, they must not. To use their powers would put this Chapter on a course from which there could be no turning back from.

Arvael lowered his head and said, "You are right my Master, the Warp cannot be allowed to become involved in this conflict. We truly can do nothing."

"No Arvael, not nothing," Echeb replied as he scooped up a handful of ashes and smeared them on his face, "We can mourn for our dead Brothers, we can mourn for the lost spirit of the Storm Heralds. We can mourn."


	20. Chapter 20

**Domus Discordia Chapter 20**

In the quiet of his dormitory Apothecary Memnos waited, counting the minutes slip by. The Apothecary was sitting on a slab, quietly testing his muscles ones by one to keep himself sharp. He was also testing his armour's Machine Spirit, checking that the damage wrought upon it had not diminished its ardour for battle.

Memnos knew to the second how long he had been here and was acutely aware that it was far too long. Memnos had spent ages circling his prison, looking for weakness and vulnerabilities to exploit. Sadly his captors were far from stupid and the door was constantly guarded, he could hear their breathing from in here and there were no other exits. They were also not foolish enough to leave him with anything he could use to effect his escape and unlike in many Imperial melodramas, they had neglected to leave him with enough materials to build his own armoured transport.

He had then tried to find a way to construct an improvised explosive from the contents of his Narthecium. An exercise in futility, since he already knew it was impossible; the device had no such compounds within it. Memnos had been left with nothing to do save stare at the walls and count his breaths. It was monumentally frustrating; those who had murdered Gorgall could even now be sitting in his seat and plotting further transgressions. Memnos had fallen back on his training, there was nothing to do but he would not do nothing. He would keep himself ready for the first sign of opportunity. He would be alert and honed, ready to move in an instant.

Memnos frowned as a distant noise filtered through the door, making him stir. A flat banging noise followed by soft, wet crump. Bolter fire, he would know the sound anywhere, someone outside was firing a bolter. Memnos was on his feet in an instant, hastening to the door and pressing his ear upon it. Sure enough he heard the noise again, soft and muffled. His enhanced hearing picked out the noise and he discerned that there was more than one firing. The distinct whines spoke of a cross-fire, an exchange of shots between opponents. There was an echoing quality to the noise, a sign that the sound had travelled a long way and around a corner. Not close then, but close enough to hear.

Suddenly Memnos heard a scuffle at the door itself and the sound of bolts being undone. He hastily backed off and kept his fists ready, prepared for anything. He was surprised however when the door opened to reveal the sight of Scout-Sergeant Nimodes standing there, his face smeared with soot and with a scabbed cut over his brow.

Nimodes looked at the Apothecary and yelled, "What are you standing around for, come on. We need to get you out of here, now!"

Memnos saw an opportunity and hastened forward, following as Nimodes turned to lead him out. In the corridor outside Memnos found the air to be filled with smoke and the flickering light of distant fires. His four scout-guards were armed with bolters and shotguns and they fell in behind, with the air of warriors who expected to use them.

Memnos followed Nimodes as he jogged away and called, "What's happened?"

"That damned cur Jossat happened," Nimodes snarled, "The swine turned up on our doorstep and demanded that we swear fealty to the True Believers. Captain Judio didn't like that at all; he told Jossat exactly where he could shove his demands, in graphic detail."

Memnos took a guess, "I assume Jossat didn't take that well."

Nimodes nodded, "Not one bit, he came back with guns and launched an all-out assault."

Memnos could tell from the noise how well that gone and said, "Scouts-novices, against a hardened Battle-Company, I don't like those odds."

Nimodes shook his head forlornly and said, "We held as best we could but Jossat got in anyway. We're fighting room to room now, casualties are heavy. We have many wounded Scout-Novices who desperately need an Apothecary."

Memnos could see the signs of battle everywhere, scorch marks and blast craters on the walls and the unmistakable smells of blood and dead bodies voiding their bowels. It was a familiar experience, one he had witnessed on countless worlds but never had it been so tragic. These True Believers, as the conspirators styled themselves, had much to pay for. Nimodes led them onwards and they passed through many chambers where bodies were piled high. Memnos saw many dead Scout-novices strewn about and the occasional Initiate from the True Believers, but far fewer of them than the youths. Memnos was tempted to stop and harvest the gene-seed but Nimodes pressed on and he followed, he wasn't sure the True Believers deserved having their genetic-legacy survive anyway.

At last the Scout-Sergeant led Memnos to a large garage, where Scout-bikes and Land Speeder Storms were housed. Laying everywhere were wounded and dying Scout-novices, all with terrible injuries. Memnos' eye travelled over them, taking in the long lines of moaning youths and he felt his hearts fall. He was but one Marine, how could he tend so many at once?

Then his Hypno-indoctrination and training slammed into place and he assessed the situation clinically. Point: triage rules apply, divide the patients up into those likely to live, those unlikely to live and those who might live with immediate intervention. Point: save those who could be saved, ease the passage of the dying. Point: waste no time mourning those already dead.

Instantly Memnos sprang into action, working his way up the line of wounded youths. The world fell away from him and he was consumed in his work, tending to his duties. He was aided in this by the Scouts own bodies, their partially enhanced bodies already trying to repair themselves. Memnos methodically worked through the waiting injured, some were in need of only a light sealant and stimm-booster. Others were not so fortunate, the youngest and least enhanced, to these he administered the Emperor's Peace, the pneumatic bolt of his Narthecium quickly becoming caked in gore.

Most harrowing were those who might have lived with proper care, those in need of major surgery. Memnos wanted to help these but he lacked the tools and there were far too many to treat for one lone Apothecary. Memnos did what little he could for these then moved on, pressing his sorrow into his mental box where it would not interfere. It was surprisingly difficult, almost as if that box was getting overfilled but he forced the emotions down with sheer will.

At last he was done and he looked up, unsure how much time had passed. He was most surprised to see that Tenth Captain Judio had arrived and was in discourse with his training-Sergeants and instructors. Judio was addressing the crowd saying, "No, it's no good. The Scout-barracks are about to fall, the last squads won't hold much longer. I will not let our wounded fall into Jossat's clutches. I am ordering you to begin an evacuation."

Memnos stood up and said, "What's going on?"

Judio turned and said, "You're finished, good. I need to sort out any walking wounded who can leave and lead them out of the combat zone. I will stay with any who cannot evacuate and hold a rear-guard to buy you time."

Nimodes started and said, "You're not coming?"

Judio shook his head saying, "All this is my fault and I must be held accountable. I thought I could preserve some part of the Chapter, I thought I could keep one small piece of us pure and unsullied. I should have listened to you; I should have seen the danger coming, I should have made a stand against the True Believers."

Nimodes pressed, "But Captain, the Scouts-novices need you."

Judio shook his head and said, "They needed better than an old fool like me. I saw the rot growing at the heart of our Chapter and I did nothing, the monsters were at the door but the guard was asleep. May the Emperor forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself."

Memnos cut through the self-pity saying, "There are eighty-seven scouts and training Sergeants who can still walk but where shall we go?"

Judio declared, "Somebody out there is still fighting these True Believers. You must find them, link up and fight on."

Nimodes protested, "Let me do this."

"No," Judio declared, "The wounded need you more. I am hereby designating you, Sergeant Nimodes, as a Brother-Commander. Lead the wounded out and leave me to my folly."

Nimodes looked like he was about to protest again but at that moment the doors at the far end of the garage blew apart. A fireball erupted in a cloud of dirty smoke and through that destruction charged a wave of ceramite clad bodies. They came with bolters roaring and chainswords revving and they bore the Heraldry of Fourth Company. Judio turned to face the invaders and he shouted, "Go now, I will buy you the time!"

Hastily the worst wounded ducked behind bikes and Land Speeders, laying down a crossfire. The air filled with flying bolts as the True Believers charged into the face of the resistance, braving the torrent of rounds flying right at them. Ceramite was blasted and torn and some enemies fell in various states of injury but the rest charged on.

Meanwhile Memnos physically dragged Nimodes away, following the fleeing walking-wounded and the few healthy Novices left. Nimodes struggled but Memnos dragged him backwards all the same. At the exit Nimodes shouted, "No, I have to see this!"

Memnos paused for a heartbeat and looked back and what he saw made him gasp. Tenth Captain Judio was in the midst of the firestorm, charging right at the True Believers. His Power Fist was held high as he screamed his defiance. Judio dove among the packed ranks and his cumbersome weapon smote all it touched, breaking enemies in half and sending their remains flying away in showers of gore.

One, two, three, four True Believers fell to his wrath but then the ranks parted and another warrior emerged. He bore glorious plate of his own and in his hands was a double-headed axe, crackling with caged lightning. It was Captain Jossat, already leaping into the fray.

Memnos gasped as the two Captains faced off, their weapons blazing with coronas of lightning. The ranks fell back around them, respecting the ancient codes when two champions met. Judio roared as he swung his fist at Jossat, the mighty weapon's field potent enough to end him in one blow. Jossat however was fast and skilled; he adroitly dodged the attack and came back with his own. A ringing blow from the axe carved a deep furrow into the Tenth Captain's plate, leaving his breastplate a mess.

Judio roared in anger and tried to club down his foe but Jossat weaved left and the weight of the fist pulled Judio off balance. Jossat spun on the spot and his axe cleaved into Judio's side, drawing blood in a torrent. Judio staggered in agony but rallied himself and fought on, punching forward in an attempt to end his enemy, Jossat however ducked and the blow passed over his head. Jossat's axe carved a trail of light through the air as it swung low and in one blow sheared off Judio's leg. The Tenth Captain fell backwards with a cry, hitting the Ferrocrete hard. Instantly Jossat jumped forward, pinning the Power Fist down with a heavy boot and laying his axe across the fallen Captain's neck.

Even from here Memnos could hear him growl, "You have fought well but for the wrong side. Yet, in his infinite mercy, the Divine Emperor grants you this one last chance to convert and serve the True Believers."

"Serve you?!" Judio spat as he looked up at his victorious foe, "I choose death!"

"If that is your choice, I shall respect it," Jossat stated, then in one smooth movement he struck off Judio's head.

Aghast Memnos grabbed Nimodes by the shoulder and shouted, "We have got to go!"

Nimodes looked like he wanted to charge out there, where the last resistance was being crushed, but he stepped back anyway crying, "Set off the Melta bombs, bring down this door!"

As the pair turned and ran there was a dull crump, followed by the roar of tons of masonry falling. The way was temporarily blocked, buying them scant minutes to evacuate. Memnos knew all too well that this battle was lost and they had to salvage what they could, he could only hope that someone out there was still fighting and that they could find them.


	21. Chapter 21

**Domus Discordia Chapter 21**

The blood was still there, it was hard to make out against the black of his armour but Wrethan could still see it. No matter how much he tried to wash it off the marks just wouldn't come clean. Strange that others couldn't see it, he thought, the serf-artisans swore that they had sterilised his plate but Wrethan could still see the marks.

Wrethan's services as the True Believer's executioner being called upon again and again. Thirteen disbelievers had been executed by Wrethan's Crozius, neither defiance nor resentment dissuading him from his onerous duty. It was a mark of distinction that not one of the captured warriors had pleaded for mercy and not one had yielded to persuasion. Despite everything they remained Astartes, surrender was not a concept that they understood.

Wrethan had performed his duty to the letter, striking down the stubborn warriors as they had been brought before him. Some walking, others dragged along with trails of blood pouring from their wounds. By Wrethan's estimation the fighting and executions had claimed half of the First Company but there were many more out there, still battling on. Wrethan knew he should hate them, his hypno-indoctrination conditioned him to hate his foes, but his fury refused to roar. It was the blood on his hands, it kept distracting him and preventing him from focussing.

Wrethan was distracted from his ruminations by an angry shout, "What do you mean they disappeared?!" Wrethan dragged his attention back to his surroundings; he was currently standing in the grand council chamber, which had been claimed as the True Believer's base of operations. Sitting in the Chapter Master's seat was Chief Apothecary Lessall, his face a mask of anger.

Standing before him were Captains Jossat and Erathor. Vox communication between the Companies was still fouled, a situation that had thrown all their efforts into anarchy. Messages were now being passed via messenger runner, a slow and inefficient method that had allowed their foes to run rings around them. Still when Lessall had summoned them they had responded, only to be surprised by what they found.

Wrethan could see Jossat's anger and resentment building. He was furious that Lessall had taken the mantle of leader, a role that he had expected to claim for himself. When he had returned with Tenth Captain Judio's head on a pike he had expected to be elevated above all, but Wrethan knew that he had been kidding himself. There was no way that Lessall was going to bow to any other soul, not again. Jossat was slowly coming to realise that himself, a bitter pill to swallow indeed. Resentfully Jossat said, "The Scout-barracks are ours and we have scores of prisoners, they are young and can be moulded to serve the True Believers."

"At least you took Judio's head," Lessall stated, "But you let a rag-tag band of malcontents flee from you, disappearing into the depths of the Fortress-Monastery."

Erathor was only slightly less resentful than Jossat but at least had the good grace to hide it as he interrupted, "It's the vox-net, without proper coordination we cannot close the trap around the disbelievers."

Lessall barked, "How is this possible?"

"Persion," Wrethan interjected, "He excels at sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong."

Lessall's angry glare swept around, off to the side to where Wrethan was standing. The Chief Apothecary spat, "I have seen that name before, usually in disciplinary reports. How did he escape reprimand? Why was his deviant lack of discipline tolerated?"

Wrethan replied candidly, "He was smart enough to never do anything to draw full censure; he was always more of an annoyance than a genuine problem."

Lessall's eyes narrowed and he growled, "It seems to me that our Chapter's enforcement of discipline is sorely lacking, misfits and rogues abound among us. Perhaps our hypno-indoctrination procedures have degraded or maybe the Chaplaincy has been neglecting its duties."

Wrethan bristled at that but Erathor butted in, "What I don't understand is how one malcontent can interfere with all our efforts. We have teams of Lex-savants working to undo his mess; Hakulo has his own communication specialist working non-stop, yet the vox-net remains down."

"A question we shall put to him when he is dragged before us," Lessall growled, "Now what is the wider situation?"

Jossat declared, "A pitiful handful of wounded scout-novices fled, but they represent no threat. Hakulo's Eighth and High Chaplain Samect continue rounding up the First Company hold-outs while Tygra's Fifth Company has Maxitio and the Seventh pinned down in the west. The real wild-card is Third Company; the murderer Toran eludes us at every turn."

Lessall turned to Wrethan and said, "Reclusiarch, you knew the murderer best. What will he do next?"

Wrethan thought about it, knowing Toran as well as any. Some small part of Wrethan didn't want to provide information that could be used against the Third Captain but he quashed it and declared, "Toran knows we hold the advantage in numbers and it's only a matter of time until we restore the vox-net. He will seek to draw as much strength to himself as possible first; he will seek to unite any who oppose us. West, he will head west and try to link up with Maxitio."

Lessall agreed, "Sadly his madness has not affected his strategic awareness. We have to crush them individually before they can link up. You two head west, Jossat take a straight route, Erathor some up from the south in case they try to approach from an oblique angle."

Jossat snarled, "You are an Apothecary, you don't get to give orders here!"

Lessall's gaze fell upon Jossat and he turned his full attention upon the Captain. For a second they locked eyes and engaged in a battle of wills but then Jossat blinked and looked away. Lessall's voice was stern and unforgiving as he growled, "Go now and bring me the murderer's head."

The two Captains turned and marched away, leaving Wrethan alone with the undisputed master of the True Believers. Lessall sat back and rubbed his brow with an armoured hand saying, "This should never have been necessary."

Wrethan was confused and said, "How so?"

Lessall lowered his hand sighing, "This whole war, it is a tragedy; everybody should have embraced us with open arms. This is the inevitable result of Gorgall's failures; he was always too weak to lead us. It takes ambition and vision to command a Chapter, things he never possessed. I only agreed to his enthronement to keep that sanctimonious cur Maxitio from claiming the rank but Gorgall's diffidence has created many more problems than it solved."

"The Chapter Master is dead, "Wrethan reminded him, "We honour our fallen, we do not slur their names."

Lessall glanced over and said, "Do you think me blind?"

Wrethan started and said, "I don't understand."

Lessall sighed and lowered his fierce expression, revealing a thoughtful mien as he said, "I see the pain in your eyes and you are not alone. Attacking our own Brothers, waging war upon ourselves it tears at us all. Yet we must not forget that we did not start this war, it was the murderer and his friends, they forced this upon us."

Wrethan remarked, "Yet still we fight, blood is upon our hands."

Lessall went quiet for a moment and then said, "Have you ever heard of the Badab war?"

Wrethan blinked in surprise and said, "Of course, it was a terrible conflict. The vile Traitor Lufgt Huron led the Astral Claws Chapter and others into rebellion against Terra's rule."

"History is written by the victor," Lessall remarked, "But for my part I found Huron to be quite admirable."

"You admire him?!" Wrethan spat.

"Oh, not the thing he became, that debased, Chaos-worshipping filth," Lessall explained wearily, "Chaos it is the root of all evil and it must be eradicated. No, I speak of the man Huron was, the man given an impossible mission."

"I don't follow," Wrethan stated warily.

Lessall elaborated, "Huron and his Chapter were set a monumental task: to guard against the Maelstrom itself. Yet Terra refused to give him the troops to do so, they stripped his armies bare and left him with nothing. Those fops and clerks had no idea what was going on at the front-line but they still demanded results. Then when Huron tried to build an army to complete the mission given to him, they accused him of Heresy! Terra started that war; they drove him into the arms of Chaos. The whole Badab war was the High Lord's fault!"

Wrethan had never heard it put that way and inquired, "Is that why you seek to free us of Terra?"

"No, I confess it's more personal than that," Lessall said, "What do you know of the Deathwatch?"

"Not much," Wrethan admitted, "It's a secret order, a most high honour."

Lessall sighed deeply and said, "Not so honourable as you would think. The questionable things the Inquisition had us do; it broke the wills of all but the strongest. Yet it was necessary, or so I told myself, those disgraceful deeds had to be done for humanity's sake. Regrettably, I had yet to see the true depths of their wickedness."

"What happened?" Wrethan pressed, his curiosity roused.

Lessall's eyes stared off into the distance as he ruminated, "It was on Sacellum, the shrine world. We were sent to eradicate a cult of gene-stealers that had taken root there. We went in with fire and steel but what we found was no Xeno, it was raw Chaos, the cult had produced a Daemonhost."

"A Daemonhost?" Wrethan inquired.

"Aye, no random vessel but a bound one, a made thing," Lessall explained, "Forged by men to chain a Daemon their will."

"An abomination!" Wrethan exclaimed, "Surely that cult deserved eradication."

"And so they were," Lessall stated, "But our handlers did not want the Daemonhost destroyed, they wanted it captured."

Wrethan frowned, "Captured, why?"

"Because the Inquisitors wanted to claim it for themselves!" Lessall barked his fists hitting the sides of the chair in anger, "They turned on each other, they fought over it, each seeking to claim the abomination for their own nefarious purposes. Zerban was there, among others. A half-dozen Inquisitors gunning each other down in the shadows of Cathedrals, all to claim a filthy Daemonhost. I couldn't stand for it; I destroyed the abomination with my own two hands. The Inquisitors would have killed me as punishment, had they thought they could get away with it, but all they could do was summarily dismiss me."

Wrethan was stunned by the tale and spat, "Disgraceful."

Lessall said distantly, "That's when I saw the truth, the Imperium for all its protestations of serving the Emperor has become a breeding ground for Chaos. They feed it with ignorance, shower it with half-measures and nurture it with weakness. Across the galaxy the Imperium stamps down on humanity but elevates Chaos in turn. It has to be stopped; the weak and corrupt rule of Terra must end."

Wrethan dared to ask, "And what of humanity?"

Lessall declared boldly, "Humanity will be better off once we are in charge. We can build a proper empire, one found upon strength and honour, worthy to inherit the Emperor's vision."

Wrethan murmured, "To fight for humanity is to fight for the Emperor."

"Exactly," Lessall stated, "We alone can free humanity from the yoke of Chaos. That is why we must be bold and decisive now. These disbelievers, they think that fight for honour but they fail to see that they are part of the problem. We must show them that the old ways will not serve anymore. We must seize the reins of power, for the good of all men everywhere."

Wrethan looked down at his hands and whispered, "So we will continue the bloodshed?"

"It is unavoidable," Lessall stated firmly, "But once we have built our empire they will see that we were right. When we rule with justice and strength, everything we have done will have been worth it. The end will justify the means."

Wrethan bowed and said, "I should return to my duties."

Lessall nodded and said, "Carry on Reclusiarch. Be strong and show no mercy."

Wrethan turned and marched away, his thoughts dark and troubled. Lessall's assertions sounded just and righteous but something still gnawed at Wrethan's soul. It was the blood, Wrethan thought, the blood of his Brothers upon his hands. It wouldn't let him be; it kept distracting him and breaking his focus. No matter what he did he couldn't stop seeing it and in his mind a voice he did not recognise hissed, "How much more blood will stain my hands before this is over?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Domus Discordia Chapter 22**

The thunder of war rumbled ahead, harsh grinding booms and bangs of violent conflict ringing from afar. It greeted them as they ran; closing in on the source with all the speed they could muster. Soon they would embrace war and it would embrace them.

Captain Toran could feel his twin pulses accelerating, the heady rush of combat-stims and hyper-adrenaline priming him for conflict. Yet he had mixed feelings about this, he was about to lead his Marines against their own kin, deliberately and with deadly intent. It was hard to wrap his mind around and yet he knew he had to be firm, his Marines could not be allowed to see any doubt in his eyes. Ahead of them lay the Seventh Company barracks and from the sounds heavy fighting awaited them. It seemed Captain Maxitio was holding firm and Toran could only hope that the Captain himself yet lived. This would go ill, had Maxitio already fallen.

As they ran Novak came closer and asked, "Are we really going to do this?"

Toran growled in reply, "We must, everything depends on it."

From the other side Bylan, who was bearing the weight of the Standard commented, "+Trust the Captain, he knows what he's doing+"

Toran knew that Bylan had faith in him but he himself wasn't so sure. This would change everything, yet he could not afford to look doubtful. His Company needed to be sure and certain of their course, they needed to be confident that they were in the right and these actions would take them towards victory. As they ran Toran saw the passageway ahead split off into three branches. He heard the sounds of firing coming from all directions and knew Seventh Company must be under assault along a wide front. Instantly he ordered, "Split up! Three groups, one Assault, Tactical and Devastator squad apiece to each side, remaining Tacticals with me!"

Instantly the Company split up. Toran leading his own force straight ahead, forging their way into the combat zone. In minutes they had reached the end of the passageway and it opened up to reveal a large mezzanine. A wide floor stretched ahead of them, running up to a double balconied fronting. The walls were cratered with bolter impacts while fallen columns and spilled debris lay everywhere. Taking cover behind those obstruction were squads of Tactical Marines, Seventh Company, laying down an impressive barrage of firepower. Opposing them were scattered groups of warriors in the heraldry of Fifth Company, the accursed True Believers. They were hunkered down among whatever cover they could find, trading shots with their opponents. The lightning and thunder of battle was incredible, the violence shocking, but to Astartes this was as natural as breathing.

Toran took in the scene at a glance, Seventh Company were dug in and had an elevated position but the True Believers were pressing forward. They were massing for a charge, where the defender's advantages would be null and void. Toran did not spy Captain Tygra anywhere but he must be elsewhere, leading a different assault.

Toran's force pulled up and waited for the order to engage but Toran froze, for the first time in his life he froze. These were Storm Heralds, how could he fire upon them? It was wrong, it was wrong in every respect. But then Toran saw Bylan's head turning, preparing to ask a question and he shoved his misgivings down. These True Believers had cast aside any claim to brotherhood, he must show them no hesitation and no mercy.

"Open fire!" Toran roared and instantly bolters, meltas, plasma and grav-shots answered the cry. A thunderous barrage erupted from the line, slamming into the backs of the True Believers. Gaping craters were blown into their plate, limbs were blown off and bodies fell. The attack achieved total surprise and left the True Believers caught in a cross-fire. Yet they did not panic or despair, no matter what else they remained Astartes.

Instantly the True Believers spun about and threw themselves at Toran's force, braving the fire as they charged. Toran saw them closing and he swiftly drew his Relic blade, leaping to meet the closest enemy. The True Believer saw whom it was he faced and leapt forward, combat blade in hand as he cried, "The murderer!"

Toran gritted his teeth and hardened his hearts, this would be the true test of his conviction. He met the blade with the flat of his sword, knocking it aside without taking a scratch. The warrior tried to follow that up with a punch to the face but Toran lowered his helm and the blow rang off his reinforced head. Toran stepped up and rammed his pauldron forwards, barging his foe backwards, making him stagger. Then the Captain thrust forward with his blade, ramming the Sword of Thiel right into his foes' hearts. The warrior seized up as the long-blade tore right through him. He quivered for a moment and spat a gobbet of blood through his helm's mouth-grill, then he fell backwards and slid off the blade.

Toran was left holding his sword, his hearts torn in two. The exultation of victory warring with the knowledge that he had just killed a fellow Storm Herald. Dread and doubt edged his mind but his hypno-indoctrination held firm. These True Believers were the enemy; they had turned on their own, just like the cur Mylos. These betrayers had to be beaten, he told himself, if he was weak then everything he held dear was already doomed.

Toran raised his bloodied sword high and cried," Finish them!"

From the melee Furion cried aloud, "No mercy, no respite, no fear!"

Invigorated the Astartes of the Third pressed forward, mowing down their foes. They held the advantage in numbers, momentum and position, it was no contest and not one of Toran's Marines fell. The True Believers died swiftly and Toran saw Novak take the last one's head with a graceful sweep of his power sword, the sparking blade shining brightly as blood sprayed high.

Toran thought for a moment that they had defeated all their foes but then he spied a blur of colour from afar. At the other end of the mezzanine, squads of True Believers were falling back, withdrawing in good order. Toran realised that the warriors they had just beaten were but a distraction. A small part of the True Believers willingly sacrificing themselves to allow the greater bulk of their force to withdraw intact. It was noble and brave and it was straight out of the Codex. Damn, Toran thought, they have lost none of their skills.

Toran held his force back with a raised arm; if the enemy had followed the Codex then they already had fall-back points established. If his Marines pursued then they would be the ones charging into the face of a dug-in foe. Perhaps they would win but it would be a bloody victory that Toran didn't need right now. That wasn't the mission here.

From behind the smoking debris and fallen columns figures began to emerge, wearing the heraldry of Seventh Company. They advanced warily and Toran could not help but notice that they kept their bolters up and aimed forward. Recognising that these warriors had no reason to trust the newcomers Toran waved at his men to lower their arms and called out, "Hail Brothers! We are the Third and we come to aid you!"

There was a shuffling motion from among the ranks and then from behind the warriors of the Seventh stepped the proud bulk of Captain Maxitio. To his left was his Company Champion, battered and scarred and to his right was his own Standard Bearer, whose banner had more than a few bolter holes in it. Maxitio was caked in dust and blood but his armour was whole and his Thunder Hammer shone with crackling power, sparking discharges testifying to a deadly tally. Maxitio addressed his Marines calling, "Stand down, as promised reinforcements are here, we do not stand alone!"

From the ranks a voice called, "We ally with a murderer?!"

Maxitio's head snapped around and he barked, "You seriously bought that steaming pile of Grox-dung?! Do not be fooled by the lies of Traitors, I know Captain Toran, he is no murderer. Orks would give up warfare and settle down to grow beans before Toran of the Third would dishonour himself so!"

Quiet fell at the Captain's admonition and then Maxitio stepped forward. Toran went to meet him, Novak and Bylan in tow, they extended their arms and the pair grasped wrist to wrist in a warrior's embrace. Maxitio declared, "Well met Brother-Captain."

Toran nodded and replied, "My hearts soar to see you are alive Brother-Captain, I was concerned."

Maxitio let go of his wrist as he said, "It's been close, Tygra is a fierce one but we held on, sure that we're not alone."

"Casualties?" Toran asked solemnly.

"A dozen Brothers," Maxitio replied sadly, "Alas that we have not even one loyal Apothecary among us, then some who died may have lived, but worst of all was our Chaplain."

Toran blinked and said, "Your Chaplain remained loyal?"

"No, he did not," Maxitio growled, "He tried to sabotage the defences to let Tygra in. I crushed the scum's skull myself for his betrayal."

Toran bowed his head and said, "A dark day for us all, these True Believers have cut to the heart of our Chapter. We have driven them off but they will rally and return soon, we cannot remain here."

"You speak the truth, our defences are crumbling," Maxitio agreed then called, "Sergeant Cyvo, prepare the squads to move out and make sure to load plenty of ammo. We deploy for a counterattack in five minutes!"

As frantic activity erupted Toran declared, "I am glad to see your Marines are ready to fight."

Maxitio smacked his breastplate and called loudly for his troop's benefit, "Heroes of the Seventh!"

In ritual response the warriors behind him paused to raise their bolters high and shouted zealously, "Hungry for war and hard to kill!"

Toran was relieved that Maxitio remained indomitable and said, "It is good to see your spirits are unbroken, for we need to move fast."

Maxitio stepped closer and said, "I agree, but there are a couple of matters to address. Firstly establishing a chain of command."

Toran blinked and said, "We are all Brothers, you know the codex as well as I. We can share responsibility."

"No," Maxitio growled, "You cannot run a war by committee; one voice must be able to give orders in full expectation of obedience."

Toran saw the wisdom of his words and bowed his head saying, "You speak wisely, I will follow you."

Now it was Maxitio's turn to blink and he said, "Actually, I meant that you should assume overall command."

"Me?" Toran spluttered, "But you have seniority, you were a Captain before I was even born."

Maxitio shook his head and said, "You are a Battle-Captain, I command Reserves. The Codex is clear, the reserves' duty is to support and aid the Battle-Companies. That is my final word on the matter, I will brook no disagreement."

There it was, Toran thought, that rigid honour. Unbending, proud and inflexible, Maxitio through and through. He nodded and said, "I accept your decision and we shall strike immediately. These True Believers shall not know what hit them."

"That's the second matter," Maxitio muttered quietly, "We face a united foe, bound by faith and conviction. We need a similar attitude; we need one clear rallying cry to muster us."

From behind Toran a voice called out, "+Primarch's Own!+"

Toran could have punched Bylan right then, someone outside the Company might not understand what that meant. Maxitio's eyes narrowed and he said, "What was that?"

Bylan stepped forward, bearing the Standard high and he said proudly, "+It reminds us what we're fighting for, the teachings and legacy of the Primarch. He who taught us to fight for Terra and hold true to the Lex Imperialis. We honour his wisdom and hold true to his Codex, we claim the spirit of Roboute Guilliman for our own+"

Toran felt a rare flush of embarrassment at the presumption but Maxitio was nodding saying, "Makes sense, and it stands in complete contrast to those damned True Believers. So shall it be, Primarch's Own against True Believers, the Seventh can fight under that banner."

Toran was glad to hear it and replied, "Come then, let us waste no more time here. We shall leave this place and take the fight to the enemy. Make no mistake the real fight begins now and it is one that we shall win!"


	23. Chapter 23

**Domus Discordia Chapter 23**

Under the freezing night sky battle raged, two forces of Transhuman warriors tearing into other with furious abandon. They fought with the rage born of betrayal, for each side was convinced that they were the virtuous, that they were fated to win. A mortal observer would have been unable to tell who was who, since both sides were wearing the same colours, but the Astartes were not so troubled. Heraldry was as distinctive to them as light and dark, Company and squad markings declaring their allegiances for all to see and they could easily tell friend from foe.

On one side the invigorated Primarch's Own pressed forward, their counterattack driving all before them. They were fresh, reinforced and eager for the fight. On the other side the depleted ranks of the True Believers were hard pressed, the Fifth Company losing momentum and begin forced back. They had withdrawn to the surface in hopes of disengaging but their foes had pursued them relentlessly and given them no quarter.

In the heart of the melee Toran was battling a True Believer who was armed with a chainsword. The foe was fast and strong, determined to win and claim his head. Yet Toran wielded the Sword of Thiel, a potent Relic weapon that dated back to the halcyon days of the Great Crusade. The two blades met and the energised blade sliced through the chainsword without pause, carrying on to rip out the foes guts. Toran deftly dodged the warrior's last death stroke and kicked him over, leaving him to die upon the cold ground. Toran resisted the urge to count the number of enemies he had slain so far, even if they were Storm Heralds, he couldn't get distracted. The Primarch's Own had to win here, grief could come later. The Captain looked about and saw that his troops were driving the foe before them, their advantage clear to see.

Third Company was at the fore, crushing all resistance, Toran's Command Squad at his side. Meanwhile Maxitio's Seventh followed closely behind, adding their weight to the battle wherever it was needed most. Toran was determined to break the enemy here and deprive the True Believers of the Fifth Company's numbers. He was also sure that he had seen Tygra in the melee but had not been able to close upon him. The Fifth Captain remained as cunning as ever, yet it was not otherwise aiding him much here.

The battle was going well, for the True Believers could not stand against the Primarch's Own in open battle, not with their squad formations shattered. Toran's Marines had the numbers and the momentum, they were driving all before them and for a moment he dared to believe that they would win through. Yet his confidence was shattered when he heard a fresh call from ahead and a new force surged through the splintered ranks of Fifth Company.

Toran's autosenses instantly assessed their heraldry and marked them out as warriors of Fourth Company, the followers of Captain Jossat. The True Believers had been reinforced and they were not slow to exploit it. Their broken ranks reformed in moments and surged back into the fight, halting the advance in moments.

Toran sensed the shift in the atmosphere and he knew that this battle had just gone from a one-sided slaughter to a blood-soaked meat grinder. It would be the worst sort of ferocity and carnage and there was no way to tell who would win but even if the Primarch's Own won they would be bled dry, unable to resist the remaining Companies set against them. If he let this become a numbers game then the inescapable truth was that the True Believers had more.

Toran raised his vox, thanking the Throne that Persion had left them short ranged comms and called, "Maxitio, take your Company right, we have to flank them!"

Maxitio called back, "That will leave the Third alone to face the brunt of it."

Toran yelled, "We have no choice, if we don't turn their flank we lose everything!"

Maxitio complied and instantly half the Primarch's Own broke off, headed right. The True Believers recognised the manoeuvre and were not slow to respond. They surged forward, knowing that if they could break the Third then they could divide and destroy the Primarchs Own piece by piece. Toran saw a wave of fresh foes come at him and he raised he sword to meet them. The world shrank into a frenzy of hacking and slashing foes, a press of Ceramite clad bodies piling upon each other.

Toran struck out, his Relic blade carving through armour and flesh with ease. Again and again he struck, tearing out throats, chopping off limbs and spilling guts with frantic desperation. By his side the Command Squad fought on, Furion was battering at an enemy with his combat knife, his immense strength breaking through any defence. To his right Jediah struck over and over with his Fractal-edged short sword, not missing a single opening or vulnerability. To the left Persion cleaved about with a Red-hot Friction axe, his augmetic arm sure and true. Bylan held the standard high as he fought off a host of foes while Novak stood before him, his sword and combat shield constant blurs of motion as he cut down foe after foe. It was the worst sort of nightmare, Storm Herald against Storm Herald but not one fighter present was willing to give an inch.

The battle was fierce and desperate and Toran knew that everything depended on them holding firm, to yield now would cost them everything. Toran hacked down another warrior in a spray of blood and in the gap created he spied a new foe emerge, a Captain in artificer armour and glorious heraldry, bearing a double-headed axe. It was Jossat and he was wading into the battle with great sweeps of his weapon, tearing and rending all before him.

Toran instantly shifted direction, moving to intercept the oncoming Fourth Captain. Battling warriors crossed between them, locked in private struggles of their own. Toran barged these aside remaining fixed upon his course, Jossat he had to reach Jossat. A pair of wrestling Storm Heralds staggered past him and then the way was clear. Toran threw himself at Jossat crying, "Face me!"

Jossat saw him coming and raised his axe shouting, "At last, justice has come for you!"

The pair met in the heart of the melee, their weapons blazing with clashing energies and the ring of metal upon metal. Toran wielded his blade two-handed, striking and parrying with all the speed and power he could muster. Yet he swiftly became aware that Jossat was a master combatant, with far more experience than he. There was an art to axe-fighting, a delicate balance of momentum, power and timing. Jossat had all these in abundance; he never stopped moving, swinging and parrying with consummate skill. His every strike was driven by immense strength and somehow his axe head was always where Toran wanted to be.

Toran gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts, thrusting and weaving his blade around Jossat's guard but somehow never managing to land a telling blow. Jossat responded in kind and soon Toran's armour was covered in gouges and tears, each one a hairsbreadth from ending this fight. Toran stuck from above, seeking to break Joassat's axe in half at the haft but the True Believer dodged the blow and swung back with a blow that nearly took Toran's arm off.

Toran snarled in anger and thrust for the heart as he roared, "You shall not win!"

Jossat knocked the blow aside as he shouted, "You die here murderer!"

In a blur of violent motion the pair duelled back and forth, trading blows and testing each other to the limit as all around their troops fought on. They were each convinced that they were in the right and that zeal stoked their determination to unparalleled heights. Toran struck and dodged, thrust and parried, over and over, lost in the compressed time of combat. He had to win this, he had to best Jossat, nothing else mattered.

Then Toran saw Jossat's arms beginning to rise, preparing to strike high and he moved to block, but too late realised that this was a feint. Jossat's hands twisted with a skill born from centuries of practice and suddenly the blow wasn't coming from up high but from down below. Toran tried to dodge but he was too slow and the axe ripped into his right thigh, cleaving through the armour with ease. Skin parted, muscles tore and bones broke as Toran felt searing agony running up his leg. He pushed it to one side but what he could not ignore was the loss of functionality. Thick blood flowed down his leg as his enhanced body sought to close the wound but he was left staggering and vulnerable.

Toran lurched back defensively, but Jossat was not about to give him time to recover and followed up with a brutal swing of his axe's haft that smashed into Toran's faceplate. The Captain staggered from the blow and his damaged leg gave way beneath him, dropping him to the ground. Flaring agony roared through Toran from his wound but he mastered it and did not cry as he looked up, determined to stare death in the face.

Jossat stood over him and raised his axe high crying, "Death to all disbelievers!" Infinitely slowly the axe began to descend, arcing down to end Toran's life. He could see the glint of starlight on its edge, the shimmering waves of power surrounding it and the crackles of energy promising inevitable death. Glacially slowly it fell but before it could make contact something else intervened.

From nowhere an adamantium pole sprang into being, intercepting the haft of the falling axe. The two met with a resounding clang and the blow abruptly stopped, inches from Toran's head. He twisted about and saw the pole was being by none other than Bylan, he had followed Toran's charge and was now holding the Company Standard laterally over his beloved Captain. Bylan was standing over Toran, protecting him with his life and he cried, "+You shall not harm the Captain!+"

Jossat snarled in anger as he swung about, bringing his axe to bear but Bylan moved the Banner about, the great flag waving in the breeze as the haft blocked the blow. Once more the crash of metal meeting metal rang forth and Jossat sneered, "To stand against the True Believers means death!"

Bylan shouted back defiantly, "+For Captain Toran and the Primarch's Own!+"

Jossat roared his wrath for all to hear as he swung again, Bylan moved to block but failed to see the feint coming. Jossat abruptly pulled his blow and stepped forward, jerking his helm forward over the crossed weapons to slam into Bylan's helmet. The unexpected blow staggered the Standard Bearer, he reeled backwards and was unable to prevent another blow as it came around. The axe's edge swung about and as it did so it tore into the woven fabric of the standard itself, ripping the weft of it and incinerating threads with blazing arcs of lightning.

The Banner of the Third, that great icon that had flown over so many of their victories went up in flames. Burning tatters of material flying up in a cloud of blazing threads that quickly turned to ashes. Toran could see Bylan's horror from where he lay, his sacred charge was being destroyed before his eyes, the duty imparted to him incinerating in the wind.

At that moment Jossat struck, he reversed his strike and swung the axe horizontally at waist height, curving the head about to crash into Bylan's side. Ceramite parted and bones shattered as the great weapon cleaved into the Astartes, burrowing deeply into his flesh. Bylan roared as the axe drove into his body, Jossat's immense strength pushing it ever deeper into the Standard Bearer's chest. Reinforced bones shattered, blood flowed freely and implanted organs were destroyed in a heartbeat as the axe nearly ripped Bylan in two.

From the ground Toran saw the blow land and his soul screamed in denial as he saw his most devoted Brother being eviscerated before his eyes. Bylan reeled for a moment and then collapsed, his entrails spilling out of the great rent carved into his chest as the flaming tatters of the standard rained down upon him in a shower of ash. Jossat stood over his defeated foe and raised his axe high, preparing to decapitate the Standard Bearer in one great sweep of his axe. Injured and alone Toran could do nothing save cry aloud in horror, "Bylan, no!"


	24. Chapter 24

**Domus Discordia Chapter 24**

Time froze before Toran's eyes, everything picked out in perfect detail. He could see it all, Bylan prone upon the ground, his lifeblood gushing out of his terrible wounds, the flaming tatters of the Standard falling and Jossat standing in triumph. The Fourth Captain's axe was raised high, preparing to end Bylan's life instantly. Toran's soul screamed in denial and he tried to rise, to confront Jossat but he was too slow, too damned slow. The axe shone with power and there was nothing Toran could do to stop it.

Suddenly there was a blur of motion as a huge shape leapt across Toran's vision, the hard angles and jutting plates declaring it to be Furion. His bolter was gone, all he had left was the knife in his hand and the rage in his hearts. The giant warrior dove upon Jossat, bellowing in fury and his knife flashed down towards the Captain's helm. Jossat reacted instantly, letting one hand free of his axe and raising it to grab the arm. Furion however was faster, he twisted the blade and rammed it point-first into Jossat's palm, slamming the knife right through the hand.

Jossat did not cry out but he was slowed and in that instant Furion's left arm snaked out and wrapped itself around his foe's right elbow. Furion pulled hard and pinned Jossat's arm to his side, locking him in place and trapping the axe against the jutting plates of his armour. Toran saw Furion's right arm come up, his fist clenched and then with all of his power and strength he rammed it straight into Jossat's faceplate.

Jossat's helmed head snapped back and the Captain staggered. Furion however pulled hard, keeping Jossat close as his fist stuck over and over, each time with a cry of rage and hatred that would have made mortals quail. Toran could hear the anguish and fury in Furion's voice, the seething hatred and aching pain of his soul, stoked by the betrayals wrought upon them. Furion's fist struck as he bellowed, "No mercy!" and Jossat's eye lenses shattered under the blow, sending his head reeling. Once more Furion smote him, this time screaming, "No respite!" making Jossat stagger in his grip. Again Furion stuck crying, "No fear!" and Jossat went limp, blood pouring from his mouth grill.

Toran was amazed by Furion's wrath, his towering anger and staggering rage. Always he had been the pillar of strength but never had he been so choleric, never had he unleashed his ire in such a manner. Furion was beating Jossat senseless and had he been left uninterrupted then he would have continued until his foe was dead. Sadly the True Believers were not blind to their Captain's plight and they came to his aid. From around the smoking and cratered buildings came a squad of Fourth Company's Marines, with bolters and knives held ready.

Furion saw them coming and reacted instantly. Toran saw his right hand grab Jossat by the belt and his left come free to clasp at the gorget, then Furion heaved upwards. With irresistible strength Furion hoisted the dazed Jossat over his head, holding him up like a sack of flour and then he threw the Captain at his own warriors. Jossat's limp form smashed into the oncoming ranks, knocking several over with the immense weight of his armoured form and sending them to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs.

Toran had seen all this from the ground but he realised that Furion was now unarmed and outnumbered. Toran slammed one hand into the ground and forced himself upright, his shattered leg screamed in protest but he ignored the agony. It was only pain, he swore over and over in his mind. Brothers are dying, he screamed at himself; get your worthless hide into the damned fight!

Staggering on his broken leg Toran lurched into the fray, his Relic blade sweeping wide. His leg was broken but there was nothing wrong with his arms and the point of his sword plunged into the gut of the first True Believer to come at him. The world shrank around them and there was only the surrounding press of bodies, foes coming at them from all sides. Toran spared a second to reach for his belt and he pulled free a spare combat knife, he threw it to Furion shouting, "Here, catch!"

Furion snatched the blade from mid-air and the pair slammed back to back, with Bylan at their feet, defending each other amid a circle of foes. All Toran could see was a wall of True Believers coming at them and he gritted his teeth as he met them with the point of his sword. Thrust, parry, slash and hack, that was all he could do, spilling blood and guts everywhere. A forest of knives engulfed them but he let them nick and tear at his armour, trusting it to hold firm. The odds were against them yet Toran refused to budge an inch, resolute to win through or die standing.

At that moment there was a thunderous retort and Toran heard a wall of noise coming from the right. A repeated hammering noise arose, the unmistaken and welcome thunder of bolters firing. Toran's hearts leapt and he shouted, "It's Maxitio!"

Furion was fending off a pair of True Believers and he cried, "He's done it, he's flanked them!"

The whole pitch of the battle instantly changed, the True Believers were now beset on two sides, caught in a vice that would crush them. Their bid to break the Third had failed and now they were the ones facing an implacable foe. They were not slow to recognise it either, their battlefield experience telling them that this battle was lost. One second Toran was facing off a wall of foes and the next they were falling back, vanishing before his eyes. The True Believers withdrew in staggered waves, dragging Jossat with them and covering each other with consummate skill as they preserved what was left of their forces. They disappeared among the broken and smouldering buildings, extracting in a textbook withdrawal.

Toran saw his Command squad at last break through to join him and he roared, "With me, after them!"

However Persion ran up to him shouting, "Captain no, we must not pursue!"

But Toran wasn't listening as he cried, "This is our chance to finish them!"

Persion threw himself before the Captain and yelled, "It's a trap, they have repurposed the wall-guns in case they were defeated. If we pursue then they will drop Apocalypse missiles on our heads."

"We can't let Jossat escape!" Toran barked angrily.

Persion shouted, "Captain, someone's cut through the jamming. We are receiving word from inside the True Believer's own camp and they are warning us off. Calth stands, they say, Calth stands."

Those words were like a bucket of water over Toran's head, dousing his anger and quenching his wrath. His hearts cried out for vengeance but his hypno-indoctrination held firm and informed him in no uncertain terms that he was about to make a mistake. The True Believers were dishonourable curs but they knew their Codex. Guilliman had never held with futile last stands or bloody charges to no purpose, if a battle was unwinnable then he would have his troops fall-back instead and he insisted that they always have a contingency plan ready.

Toran recognised these facts and forced his anger down, for now. There would be another battle he told himself even as he gave the order to cease pursuit. Something niggled at his mind but his Hypno-indoctrination demanded he see to his Company's needs first, he checked his squads and was relieved to see that they were alert and ready but not charging mindlessly into the trap. There were some significant gaps in the line and he hurriedly checked his armour's Machine Spirit, which was linked Company wide. Lines of runes blinked in his vision and he gritted his teeth, not one soul in the Primarch's Own was uninjured and nineteen life-signs were extinct. A tenth of their strength culled in one battle, for Astartes that was a grievous tally, even when fighting their own kind.

Toran sheathed his sword and tested his leg, which was already reknitting, the armour he would patch up later when he had a chance. The Captain called out, "All squads hold here, salve your wounds and redress for the next battle. And someone find me Captain Maxitio, we need to thank him for his timely intervention."

A bustle of activity erupted and Toran was satisfied that the Primarch's Own were ready for the next fight. His subconscious was practically screaming at him now and with his duty discharged he let the thoughts form, then Toran gasped and spun about to check on Bylan. What he saw was shocking and harrowing beyond measure; Bylan was sprawled upon the ground and surrounded by blood. His lower half was practically torn off; hanging by a few threads of sinew and his chest was a mass of scabbed Larraman Cells.

The Command squad was kneeling by his side, Furion cradling his unhelmed head and Toran raced to join them, ripping free his helmet and desperately hoping against hope. Toran glanced at Furion, who sadly shook his head. Toran didn't need to be told though for he knew all too well that these wounds were fatal, even for an Astartes. There could be no doubt; these were Bylan's last moments.

Toran took Bylan's hand and said, "Brother, can you hear me?"

Bylan stirred feebly and looked up, his augmetic lungs kept his voice to its usual rasp but his eyes were watery as he said, "+Captain, are you hale?+"

Toran couldn't believe his ears, the Standard Bearer was practically torn in two and his first thought was for his Captain's welfare. Toran leaned in and said, "Do not concern yourself Bylan, you saved us, the Company is safe thanks to you."

Bylan's eye flicked to the side and he gasped, "+I… I have failed you… the Standard is ashes+"

Toran shook his head and said, "No Brother, you have done admirably. We are all proud of you, you have done more than we could ever have expected. None shall doubt that your honour is intact."

Bylan looked up and his voice rasped, "+Do not grieve for me Captain, I had an amazing life. I walked on the inside of a hollow world and sailed beneath the surface of a gas-giant. I saw the Great Devour defeated, I faced the Dusk Prince and I have walked outside of space and time. It was all thanks to you… you gave me this…+"

Toran gripped Bylan's hand firmly and said, "Stay with us Brother."

Bylan eyes were growing distant now but his augmetic rasp continued, "+I was doomed to a life as a serf until you came… a debt I could never repay. You said I could make a difference…+"

"You have," Toran uttered, "You have made a difference."

Bylan was fading now and his voice was faltering, "+I wouldn't trade any of it… not one second… for I stood beside heroes and was counted amongst them…+"

Toran whispered, "You were among the greatest of us, your name will never be forgotten."

Bylan's eyes were not looking at this world anymore as he whispered, "+Titans… I would have liked to have seen Titans… just once…+"

Then his head fell back and the life fled from his eyes. Furion placed a gentle hand over his eyes and closed them saying, "He is dead. Be at peace Brother and know you died well." Toran looked at his Command squad, their unhelmed faces wracked with grief and sorrow. All of them could feel the pain of loss, the death hollowing out their hearts. Woe tore at them but because of their training and hypno-indoctrination they knew only one way to express that anguish: blinding, incandescent fury.

Novak's face screwed up as he spat, "I am going to kill every last one of those scum for this."

Persion clenched his fists and growled, "They shall be made to pay."

Furion straightened up and declared, "For Bylan, for all our lost, there must be a reckoning."

Jediah was kneading his weapon's grips and he snarled, "I am going to carve Bylan's name into their hearts."

For once Toran didn't try to hold them back, his own hearts were filled with fury, promising a terrible retribution to come and he avowed, "We are far from done yet, this battle has barely begun. We shall find these True Believers and they shall tremble before our wrath. When I next see Jossat I am going to carve out both his hearts and make him watch as they stop beating!"


	25. Chapter 25

**Domus Discordia Chapter 25**

The wound wasn't as bad as it looked, merely a cut down the side of the chest. It was shallow and was clearly defined, promising a swift recovery. The edges were scabbed with nascent Larraman cells but not enough to close it yet, the novice's implants were simply too new to properly function. Memnos sighed to himself as he inspected the Scout-novice sitting before him, one arm raised up high to allow access. Memnos tutted at the sight and said, "Why didn't you report this?"

The scout-novice looked like he was holding back tears of pain and muttered, "I don't need any help."

Memnos rolled his eyes and said, "Emperor save me from pig-headed fools. You're damn lucky not to have bled out, report it next time."

It was a gross exaggeration but better to get through the novice's stubborn pride now, before it became ingrained. In Memnos' opinion the greatest danger here was infection, one the youth's immature immune system might not be able to cope with. He sighed and applied a coat of sealant over then cuffed the lad saying, "Run along and next time don't be so stupid."

The scout hurriedly dashed away, closing up his carapace armour's clasps as Memnos sighed wearily. He looked about and took in the scene. All around him the survivors of Tenth Company were milling about, checking weapons and testing their armour. Gaggles of shaven-headed youths were everywhere, mixed with a few grey-haired veterans Scout-sergeants who were keeping a stern eye upon them. The Apothecary had been with them when they had fled the fall of the Scout-barracks and the long flight into the dark that followed.

Memnos had expected the True Believers to dog their every step but in fact they had slipped away with ease. A fact that only made Memnos more suspicious. Taking no chances the scout-novices had kept moving for an eternity, fleeing without pause until they were certain that they were not being pursued. Once assured of their safety they had paused here, in a dank and mouldy storm drain to take stock and reconnoitre. Nobody would admit it but a few of the younger scouts also badly needed rest, their bodies were not yet fully Transhuman.

Memnos looked about and saw Nimodes talking with a few senior sergeants and he set off to meet him. He passed dozing scout-novices with their heads down and was reassured to see that they were keeping their shotguns and bolters close, even when at rest they were not unready. Memnos strode up to Nimodes and called, "Hail, Brother-Commander!"

Nimodes looked about and scowled before saying, "I told you not to call me that."

Memnos ignored the comment as he joined the group and inquired, "Any sign of pursuit?"

"None and that's what worries me," Nimodes replied, "Our escape was too easy; there should have been packs of True Believers on our heels every step of the way."

One of the Sergeants spoke up to say, "Maybe they had somewhere else to be, recon reports signs of fighting elsewhere."

Memnos nodded and stated, "A sign we are not alone out here. Someone else is fighting back."

Nimodes nodded distractedly and asked, "How soon can we move again?"

Memnos gave it some thought and replied, "We've been running for days, the youngest ones are useless in this state, they need rest. I would recommend another two hours of sleep before we deploy again."

Nimodes hissed between his teeth but said, "If it must be so, two hours it is. The rest of you stand watch on the perimeter, I don't want any surprises. Vox-net is still down so send message-runners if there's an alarm."

The group broke up and headed out, Memnos watched them go then inquired, "So, what are we going to do?"

Nimodes sighed and said, "The situation is grim, these True Believers control everything. They have the armouries and the wall-guns, the Thunderhawk bays and every major defence installation under their thumb. Most of the serfs are obeying their orders, why shouldn't they? The island is theirs, we all can do is irritate them."

Memnos grimaced and said, "Somebody out there is still fighting, we've seen it. If we can link up we could make a proper war of this."

Nimodes said sadly, "I'm not sure that will be enough, the True Believers have planned this for a long time. We may have to consider more radical options."

Memnos eyed him and said, "What are you thinking?"

Nimodes checked no one was listening then whispered, "The scout's strength has ever been subtly and stealth, we can get in where others can't. I know the Captains ranged against us, the True Believers are fractious but they are built around a central figure, two figures actually: Lessall and Samect."

Memnos didn't like the sound of that and said, "I trust you are not proposing assassination…"

"I am thinking about it," Nimodes muttered.

Memnos wanted to protest but had to look at this clinically and said, "It may be necessary."

"We're at war," Nimodes spat, "Show me another option and I will take it, but right now this is the only way I can see to turn this around."

Memnos drew in another breath but at that moment a Scout-Novice came running up gasping, "Commander, Commander! They're at the perimeter!"

Nimodes spun about and barked, "Who is it?! Friend or foe, don't just blurt it out, make a detailed report!"

The Scout gulped then said in a calmer fashion, "A score of warriors have approached the perimeter, they're not firing . They claim to be fighting the True Believers."

Memnos hearts surged at that and he said, "Reinforcements? Maybe there is another option."

Nimodes looked less assured and said, "Maybe or it maybe a ruse to enter our camp. Have their leader brought to us, unarmed."

The scout looked doubtful as he said, "I don't think that's going to…"

Suddenly the storm drain rang with the sound of boots and the scouts at the entrance moved aside as a line of armoured figures entered. Nimodes spat, "Damnation, were none of you paying attention during basic training. Never let armed…"

He trailed off when he spied the nature of the warriors approaching. Memnos peered and saw that they were all majestic figures, in armour festooned with purity seals and bearing the most potent of weapons. The least among them was marked out as a mighty hero, each one bearing a litany of honours and badges of worthy merit. First Company warriors, Memnos realised, these were the heroes of the First. At their head marched a lone Honour Guard, his faceplate formed of eagle's wings and his power axe shining in the dank gloom. This mighty hero was followed by two lines of warriors, to his left a line of seven Veterans bearing combi-bolters and the laurels of keen marksmanship. They were Sternguard, the indomitable veterans of a thousand wars. To the right marched six warriors with jump packs and shining power swords. The fastest and most feared assault specialists of the Chapter: Vanguard veterans.

These were the most experienced and lauded heroes of the Chapter yet they paled in comparison to what followed. With heavy ringing footsteps five doughty figures marched at the rear. Their bulk was breathtaking; their mass was astonishing and the thickness of their plate could have stopped an anti-tank round. They bore twin lightning claws or broad storm shields and thunder hammers, whose glowing heads promised inevitable death. Terminators: the mightiest of the mighty and the bravest of the brave.

The veterans marched right up to Nimodes and Memnos and heads everywhere turned to witness the meeting. They stopped when the Honour Guard held up a hand, he surveyed them and then said, "Who is in charge here?"

Nimodes gulped and answered, "I am."

The Honour Guard looked over the packed ranks of novices and remarked, "Scouts?"

Nimodes nodded and said, "All that escaped the True Believers attack on the Tenth Company barracks."

The Honour Guard asked, "Is this all you got out?"

Memnos was incensed at the tone and stepped forward saying, "Show respect, you address a Brother-Commander."

Suddenly there was a heavy stomp and one Terminator crunched forward, his helm fixed upon Memnos and he growled in deep tones, "What's this, an Apothecary?"

Memnos stared back and said, "Aye, one sworn to defeat those rabid True Believers."

The Terminator spat, "I don't trust him."

Memnos glared back saying, "And I don't trust anybody whose face and name I know not."

The Terminator begrudgingly reached up and removed his helm with one hand, not an easy task in Terminator armour but he managed it. He held it in one hand as he announced, "I am Sergeant Orath, the Emperor's mailed fist and His appointed arbiter of Justice. This here is our revered Honour Guard, I won't bother telling you his name because he won't tell us either."

Memnos noted that the Terminator had taken the time to recite his own list of titles and said, "Do you and I have a problem Orath?"

"Lessall started this whole war," Orath growled, "How do I know you're not still working for him?"

Nimodes seemed to have got over his surprise and he spat, "Half these boys would be dead without Memnos, I have no doubts as to his loyalty. You however are a different matter."

"You dare," Orath spat but was stopped when the Honour Guard held up his hand to avoid conflict. He drew in a breath and said, "Now is not the time for arguments, you fight the True Believers, that is enough for me. We too seek to end their perfidy; we seek to avenge the murder of Chapter Master Gorgall by claiming the heads of Samect and Lessall."

Memnos and Nimodes shared a glance and said, "You already knew who killed him?"

"Of course," Orath snorted, "Only an idiot would believe a word that comes out of Lessall's mouth and any doubts we had were quashed when this Honour Guard showed up. He's been proclaiming to one and all that Toran is innocent, he's the one who rounded all of us up and made us swear to crush the True Believers underfoot."

Nimodes nodded and said, "We understand, we too are committed to ending their infamy."

The Honour Guard appeared to be thoughtful and said, "If you are a Brother-Commander, then I take it Tenth Captain Judio is dead."

Memnos felt a stab of grief as he said, "Indeed, he was cut down before our eyes by that filth Jossat."

"One more crime to lay at the True Believers feet," the Honour Guard stated, "We will not rest until justice is served."

Memnos saw an opportunity here and interjected, "You would have an easier time of it if we joined forces."

"Scouts, you would have us join with Scouts?" Orath scoffed, "We are the First, they will only slow us down. We don't need them."

Suddenly Nimodes stepped forward, right into Orath's face. He was barely a match in height and comically outmassed by the Tactical Dreadnought armour, but his anger shimmered off him as he got right into the Terminator's face. Orath blinked in surprise as Nimodes furiously declared, "You can berate them, you can insult their skills, their strengths and their mothers' virtues. You can even send them out to die all alone in the dark but don't you dare make them feel for one moment that they are not needed!"

The Honour Guard agreed and proclaimed loudly, "Indeed, these youths represent the future of the Chapter and what else are we fighting over save the future of our Chapter. It is only right and proper that we join forces, together we will be a power to make these True Believers quail!"

Nimodes slowly stepped back and glared at Orath but Memnos hastily said, "We would have an even better chance if we had yet more numbers."

Orath and the honour shared a glance and then the eagle masked warrior said, "We have not encountered any other First Company Brethren for hours. We must assume that they are pinned, captured or dead already. Yet we hear fighting ringing from the west, we believe one, possibly two companies still resist."

Memnos thought about it and remarked, "It's the best lead we have."

"Very well," Nimodes stated, "As soon as the scout-novices are ready we will head west. If the Emperor is with us then maybe we can find someone else who yet resists and together we can teach these True Believers what it is to know fear."


	26. Chapter 26

**Domus Discordia Chapter 26**

Through the dark and dank tunnels the scouts moved, eagerly probing the darkness ahead. They dashed from cover to cover, alert for danger and checking the angles as they had been taught. So far they had encountered no resistance but they did not relax, enemies could be anywhere and there was no telling when they would next encounter a foe.

Many of the scout-novices bore wounds and even those that did not were harried, their implant sockets still raw and their armour chipped and gouged. Despite that they were eager for the fray, they had been blooded and had seen the betrayal of the True Believers first hand. They were determined to claim a recompense in blood and none doubted that they would acquit themselves well.

Trailing along behind them came a group of far more heavily armed warriors, the First Company veterans along with Nimodes and Memnos. The Apothecary had insisted that they wait for the youths to rest, a debate of no little acrimony, but now they were ready and on the move. Memnos was checking his medical supplies, which were starting to run low and he commented, "I could really use stopping at an Apothecarion."

Besides him Nimodes muttered, "Not bloody likely, we need to keep heading west."

Memnos thought about it and said, "Do you think we will find somebody?"

Nimodes glanced over and said, "This was your idea, it's too late to have second thoughts. Besides you were right, we can't win this alone. We need to join forces with anybody who is fighting back, only then do we stand a chance."

Memnos knew it was true yet still said, "Speaking of which, what do you think of our new allies?"

Nimodes glanced over to the warriors of the First, then said, "Redoubtable, we will be glad of their presence when the fighting starts."

Memnos dared to say, "You don't find them a bit… arrogant?"

Nimodes stated firmly, "They have good reason to be arrogant; their litany of victories is unmatched. With them on our side we might just win this war."

Suddenly a scout-novice came running from ahead and he cried, "Contact ahead!"

Nimodes instantly reacted by calling, "Everybody spread out, overlapping crossfires, be prepared for anything, we don't know if this is friend or foe!"

The scout-novices responded crisply, moving into the surrounding tunnels with practised ease. While the youths prepared for battle Memnos followed Nimodes right up to the front. They were followed by the Honour Guard and the First Company warriors, it was hardly subtle or stealthy to be bringing Terminators forward but they weren't technically under Nimodes' command so there was nothing to be done.

Together the group headed down the dank tunnel and soon they found a group of scouts, crouching at a sharp turn in the tunnel. Memnos saw Nimodes creep up to them and communicate via hand signals, "Contact?"

"Ahead," the Scout leader signed back, "No visual, many unknowns."

Nimodes sank back in thought and Memnos could practically see the ideas turning over in his mind. These could be the allies they were looking for but they could equally be enemies. They needed to establish facts first but their options were limited, the tunnels hemmed them in and the dark obscured visual observation. Apart from standing up and walking right at them there was no way to see who it was.

Nimodes raised a hand and began making signals to fall back but at that exact moment there was a cry of, "Enemies ahead!" followed by a thunder of bolt rounds. Memnos instantly pressed himself into the wall as the corner exploded under a barrage of mass-reactives, stone chips flying off to nick and score at his armour. The scout-novices suffered cuts and grazes to their exposed arms and but none took a dangerous wound.

Nimodes pulled back and shouted, "We have to fall-back, get to a more controllable position!"

Memnos was about to agree but then he heard a distant cry from their attackers, "Primarch's Own!"

Memnos started, he recognised that cry and he yelled, "No, it's the Third, this is who we have been looking for!"

Nimodes accepted this without question and leaned nearer the corner to shout, "Cease-fire, we are not your enemies!"

However the only response was another flurry of bolt-rounds, smashing into the walls with miniature detonations erupting a second later. Cries of rage rang down the tunnel but Nimodes barked again, "Cease-fire! Cease-Fire!"

Suddenly from behind them a deep voice rumbled, "Oh for Throne's sake, let me do it."

There was a heavy clomp of boots and then the massive form of Sergeant Orath lumbered past, the Terminator stepping past them into the open. Orath raised his storm shield before him as he emerged from cover, only to be greeted by a hail of bolt-rounds. The incoming fire instantly focussed upon him, inundating him in flying metal and explosions, yet the Terminator was undaunted. His storm shield rang as rounds deflected off it, battered aside by the thick armour and inbuilt force field. The violence of the salvo was staggering; enough to bowl over a warrior in power armour but Orath didn't even sway as the rounds battered him. He stood resolute in the face of the carnage, no more troubled than a man walking through the lightest rain.

The incoming fire slacked off, leaving Orath barely scratched and then a voice called, "Who goes there?!"

"At last," Nimodes spat, "We are the survivors of the First and the Tenth, we seek Toran, Captain of the Third!"

The voice called back, "Prove it!"

Suddenly the Honour Guard stepped around the corner and he called, "Do you recognise me?"

The voice replied, "You?! You're back, it must be true. Step out then, we will hold our fire."

Nimodes whispered a few instructions to a waiting Scout-novice, who dashed off back to the waiting squads, then he stepped out. Memnos followed him and together with the warriors of the First they approached the waiting Astartes. As they closed Memnos could pick out their heraldry and he saw it was a group from the Third, an Assault squad led by a Sergeant with twin lightning claws.

Nimodes marched up to them and said, "Sergeant, firstly greetings to a Brother in arms. Secondly I require a word in private."

The Sergeant stepped forward, and the rest of the squad made themselves scare as he growled, "What is it?"

"Lorath," Nimodes spat, "Of course, who else would shoot at an unidentified target? Rash and ill-considered as ever, you should assign penance to your whole squad for their poor display."

Lorath snorted, "That's Chaplaincy talk, maybe you weren't paying attention but they've turned on us. We don't need that sort of thinking any more."

Suddenly the Honour Guard stepped up and declared, "Your squad's target-recognition is abysmal and your fire-discipline is sorely lacking, the scout-novices show better judgement. You ought to be mortified by your slovenly standards, Chaplains or not, you should all subject yourselves to self-flagellation as contrition."

Lorath gulped at being addressed so, by no less than an Honour Guard, and bowed hastily saying, "You are right, I offer no excuses. We must not let the current conflict erode our standards; we will atone for our mistake. Let me escort you to the Captain immediately."

Hurriedly Lorath led the group onwards, heading deeper into the tunnels. Before too long they emerged into a wider concourse, a transit hub for cargo and heavy freight. The ground was crossed by thick rail lines and there were a couple of empty cabs sitting upon them, their servitor drivers blankly staring ahead. Approaching between them was a knot of Astartes, the blessedly welcome sight of Captain Toran and his Command squad. Memnos was glad to see his comrades but was surprised to see the form of Captain Maxitio walking with them.

The two groups approached each other and Nimodes saluted with the sign of the Aquila saying, "Brother-Captain, it is good to see you."

Toran pulled up short and said, "Nimodes, what are you doing here?"

That was a surprisingly short greeting from the normally level-headed Captain but Nimodes responded smoothly, "We were looking for you."

Toran reach up and took off his helm then inquired, "Judio?"

Nimodes shook his head sadly and Maxitio who said, "Damnation, Judio was a stubborn one but he would have been most welcome at our side."

Toran's eye travelled over the group and he said, "I see you bring friends, Terminators no less and our friend the Honour Guard and… wait, is that Apothecary Memnos? What the hell is he doing here?!"

Memnos didn't flinch but he was surprised at the angry tone. Thankfully Nimodes hurriedly stepped between them saying, "I vouch for Memnos, he has been with us every step of the way, we wouldn't have survived without him. The True Believers want him dead more than anyone else."

Toran was gripping his sword's hilt tightly and his one organic eye was narrowed as he growled, "Explain how one Apothecary out of a whole order manages to not betray us."

Memnos blinked at the harsh demand, the Captain sounded irate indeed, but he explained, "I stumbled upon evidence of a conspiracy in the Apothecarion. I have seen proof that Gorgall's death was plotted by none other than Lessall himself. They seek to silence me, they can't let me tell what I know."

Maxitio suddenly blurted out, "You have this proof with you?"

"Alas no," Memnos answered, "But I know where it is, it can be accessed from the Primus-Apothecarion."

Maxitio turned to Toran and said, "Proof exists that you did not murder Gorgall, this is monumental. We can show everybody the truth."

Toran shook his head saying, "We have already engaged with the True Believers, I don't think it will make a difference now."

Maxitio pressed "But if Lessall is indeed guilty then we could show the True Believers that they are fighting for a lie. It would cripple their morale and shatter their fighting spirit if they learned that they, not we, serve a murderer."

"And then what?" interjected Orath, "Will they lay down their weapons and repent their folly? Blood has been shed, it is too late to turn back now. The lines are drawn and nobody will turn aside now."

"He's right," Toran said, "We have been betrayed and they had slain our Brothers. I will not divert now, we will seek them out and crush them under our boots. Nothing can be allowed to divert us from this course."

Memnos was surprised to head the anger in Toran's voice and he said, "Captain, we have a chance to undermine our foe's whole cause, to rip the zeal from their hearts. What is it that drives you so?"

Toran glared angrily and spat, "Brothers have died, Bylan among them.."

Memnos gasped and looked about, seeing who was missing from the line-up. It was a glaring omission, Bylan, always so hopeful and trusting was entirely missing. Suddenly Toran's grim fury made sense, the smouldering rage and determination to hunt down their foes. It was an anger that could break worlds and shatter armies but it could equally see men charge into unbeatable odds, ignoring sense in the need to close with the foe.

Memnos swallowed and said, "Captain, I share your grief and desire vengeance as much as you, yet I must urge cool consideration. We should not be rash."

Toran fixed him with a glare and looked like he wanted to shout but he bit back his retort and said, "I assure you, even though I burn for retribution, my head is not ruled by my heart. This is a matter of tactical priorities, we have the True Believers on the run. We can crush half their strength at a stroke and tip the odds of this war in our favour. Once that is done, then we may have time to think about other matters."

Memnos wanted to protest again but the decision was the Captain's and none could gainsay him. It was Nimodes who stepped up to say, "Could you use a few more guns?"

Toran's anger simmered down and he said, "We would welcome any who are willing to stand up for the truth."

Orath awkwardly clanged his Storm Shield on his thigh and said, "Don't forget us; we have a debt to collect ourselves, one that can only be repaid in blood."

Toran accepted this and declared, "So be it, we will fall upon these True Believers with fire and steel and make them rue their betrayals."

Everybody cheered at that save Memnos, who had a sinking feeling that this was going to prove far from easy.


	27. Chapter 27

**Domus Discordia Chapter 27**

The body fell before him, its head a gory smear as the corpse hit the ground with a clatter of plate and went still. Wrethan looked upon it and could not help but note the Company and Squad markings, declarations of this Marine's status and deeds. He knew he should not be reading these, it made his duty so much harder, but he could not help himself, every time he executed a nonbeliever his eidetic memory would sear their faces into his mind, marking them forever on his soul.

Wrethan forced himself to turn away from the dead Space Marine and looked about. He was on the island's surface, under the twinkling stars and the air was cold as it blew around the Ferrocrete of the surrounding buildings. Strewn around were a half-dozen Storm Heralds, remnants of the First Company. They were slowly cooling as their lifeblood congealed, their bodies broken and sundered by the violence of combat. Standing over them was High Chaplain Samect, whose Crozius was friziting with discharged energy. With him was his Reclusiam Command Squad, with notably fewer Proctors than before.

Over the last few days the True Believers had hunted down the last remnants of resistance, overwhelming them one by one. No mercy had been shown to those who refused to convert and Wrethan had been called upon time and time again to execute any who survived the assaults. It had been hard and bloody work but at last the island was secure, all who defied them had been crushed under their boots, well almost.

Eighth Captain Hakulo had separated his Marines from them to hunt unobserved and Wrethan strongly suspected that he was not executing the fallen. Wrethan had seen gaggles of Eighth Company warriors dragging bleeding bodies away and he inferred that they were imprisoning the survivors rather than killing them outright. Wrethan knew he should be admonishing the Eighth Captain or at least informing Samect but his hearts weren't in it, somehow his customary hatred just wasn't present. Every time he thought to raise the issue with the High Chaplain he would become distracted, the blood still on his hands jarring his thoughts and making him keep his mouth shut.

Wrethan saw that Samect was talking and realised his thoughts were wandering again. With an effort he forced himself to focus and heard Samect making a speech to his followers, "and so the Divine Emperor shall see our righteousness and He shall reward us with victory!"

A ragged cheer arose and Wrethan waited for it to die down, then he approached Samect and said, "High Chaplain, it is time to move on we are needed elsewhere."

Samect glanced over, his skull helm glinting in the cold night air as he said, "Reclusiarch, eager for yet more fighting I see. Worry not, your bloodlust shall be quenched soon enough."

That hadn't been what Wrethan had meant but he ignored it to say, "Where shall we deploy next?"

Samect looked at his squad and declared, "The nonbelievers have fallen, all save for one group. Word comes from the west, the last bastion of resistance is there. Chief Apothecary Lessall summons all True Believers to meet him in the field, we shall unite for the final battle."

The squad quickly formed up and began to move west, behind them they left the bodies of the First in the hands of serf-retainers. They would strip the bodies of valued armour and drag the remains to the Apothecarion to have their gene-seed extracted. Even though they were nonbelievers the Chief Apothecary had proclaimed in his mercy that their genetic legacy would be collected for the Chapter. Wrethan knew all too well they would need every last scrap of gene-seed to rebuild after all this fighting.

As they marched Wrethan looked at his superior and said, "The fighting has been far more extensive than we anticipated."

Samect nodded, "Resistance was inevitable, but victory at last lies within our grasp."

Wrethan glanced at the smoking buildings and cratered walls and remarked, "We have only just finished rebuilding our home, now it is torn by war once more."

Samect shrugged it off saying, "Superficial damage only, easily repaired. We hold the Apothecarions and the Scout-barracks, the Forges are neutral. We will certainly need them for what is to come."

Wrethan had been wondering about that and inquired, "High Chaplain, what is the Chapter to do once this is over?"

Samect replied confidently, "Why, we shall begin to build our new empire. We have it all planned out, the first move will be to conquer Tectum, the great Naval base and the sector-capital world. The defences there are still reeling from the Noctis Aeterna, we will drive into the heart of them and seize the Admiralty, the Guard headquarters and the Governor's Palace."

"There will be resistance," Wrethan pointed out.

"Inconsequential," Samect demurred, "The common man is bred to obey, once we hold the seats of power they will answer to us. Civil governors will be replaced with hand-picked mortals who desire our favour. Senior military personnel will be granted the blessings of our hypno-indoctrination, the same as our serfs enjoy, they will be left utterly loyal to us. Once we command the bulk of the Navy and the Guard, then we will conquer the rest of the Saint Karyl Trail one world at a time."

"And what the Inquisition?" Wrethan asked.

"We shall take no chances with that nest of vipers," Samect snarled, "We kill them to a man. Zerban in particular, Lessall has a special fate in store for that snake."

"But first we need to win here," Wrethan stated, "A feat yet to be accomplished."

"Then let us waste no more time," Samect declared, doubling his pace.

Together they headed west, passing across the island with a speed that a ground-cab would have been pressed hard to match. They passed areas of smoking damage and others that were pristine. Everywhere they went Wrethan saw fearful and timid serfs desperately getting out of their way. The mortals seemed dazed and confused, unsure as to why their masters were fighting each other. Wrethan tried to ignore them but their terrified faces kept distracting him and he was forced to remind himself over and over that the True Believers were doing this for mortals like them, for all humanity.

At last they came to a plaza, a wide-open parade ground and here they found the warriors of Fourth and Fifth Companies. Naturally the squads were on guard, yet they looked battered and weary. Their armour was gouged and torn, their hands loose on their bolters and their heads weren't held high. Wrethan knew enough to recognise the signs of heavy battle on an Astartes. They strode up to the middle of the camp and here at last found the leaders of the True Believers. At the centre was Chief Apothecary Lessall, with Captain's Jossat and Tygra. With them was also Captain Erathor and surprisingly Hakulo too. They had come together for the first time since this war had started and seemed to be discussing how it had unfolded so far.

"Where were you?!" Jossat was shouting, "We needed you on our flank!"

Captain Erathor didn't blink as he replied indignantly, "Sixth Company was where it was supposed to be, approaching from the south."

Tygra sneered, "You were mightily slow about it."

Erathor glared as he spat, "Don't blame us if you can't hold a line."

Wrethan and Samect strode up to them and the High Chaplain barked, "What is this?!"

Everybody glared at him but it was Hakulo who answered, "It seems that Third and Seventh Companies have joined forces. They repulsed our good Captains here and drove them back, they now rampage unopposed."

Wrethan couldn't help but feel a faint sense of pride at the stubborn resistance of his old comrades. It was perverse, feeling sympathy for an enemy but his hearts refused to conform. He also couldn't help but notice that Jossat's face was badly bruised, the fading signs that he had been beaten within an inch of his life. Wrethan didn't know what had occurred but Jossat's ire seemed to be waxing strong.

Meanwhile Erathor was stating, "It's the accursed vox-net, we can't coordinate properly without it. Had we been able to talk to each other we could have crushed them utterly."

Tygra sneered but Jossat snarled, "I saw the murderer, Toran is at the head of this force. They proclaim themselves, the Primarch Own."

Faces screwed up in resentment at that and Samect spat, "Damn Toran and his cult of personality, we should have stamped down on it. Even Gorgall saw the dangers."

Lessall interrupted to bark, "Enough, you waste time with recriminations and blame when we should be acting."

Wrethan agreed and said, "Let us all not forget that we are the righteous here, the True Believers fight to avenge the murder of our Chapter Master. We must not lose sight of our goal, nor the worthiness of our cause."

Everybody settled back and Tygra said, "So how do we respond?"

Erathor asked, "Can we get the vox-net back?"

Hakulo shook his head and said, "I have my best Marines on it, but nothing seems to be working."

Wrethan was impressed, he knew Persion was good but not that good, he had underestimated his wayward comrade. He said, "Where is the foe now?"

Jossat replied, "Pressing towards our position, they seek to engage us before we can coordinate a counter-attack."

"Then let us use that against them," Lessall replied, "Draw them out into open battle, once exposed we can annihilate them in one blow."

Erathor's eyes narrowed and he said, "I trust you are not proposing dropping Apocalypse missiles on my Marines' heads?"

Hakulo snorted and said, "We tried that trick once already and they didn't fall for it."

Wrethan commented, "I would be surprised if they did, it was Toran's company who first came up with the idea. I know Toran, he will try to out think us, approach from an unexpected angle and press us hard. He will engage too closely for us to rain down fire from on high without obliterating our own Marines."

Lessall's eye had a hard look but Jossat jumped in hissing, "If the next words out of your mouth are 'acceptable casualties' then this will end badly for us all."

Lessall didn't sound concerned as he stated, "Actually, I was thinking we could use that against him. We could lure these Primarch's Own out into an open space where we can surround them with superior numbers."

Jossat begrudgingly said, "That could work, where shall we lay our trap?"

Erathor said, "Without the vox-net it will have to be somewhere open, where we can see what's occurring, without being spotted ourselves."

Hakulo interjected, "There is a training park nearby, wide open vistas and clear ground to charge across."

"Perfect," Lessall declared, "We shall position Fourth and Fifth Companies out in the open as a lure, the nonbelievers have engaged you already and think you beaten. Let them come to you and fix them in a set piece battle, once they are committed I will lead Sixth Company up from the south and Eight can come down from the north. A classic envelopment, we surrounded the enemy and crush them."

Wrethan wasn't convinced and cautioned, "Toran will be wary of traps, he won't charge heedlessly into combat. Any plan that relies upon the foe reacting as we want them to is doomed to fail."

However Jossat replied, "Worry not, I have faced Toran in combat. His blood is up, he will be burning to face us again. And if they don't come to us we can always advance and crush them in a full-frontal assault."

Tygra looked thoughtful and stated, "A shame the Forges are in lockdown, we could use armoured support."

Hakulo shook his head and said, "Speed will be more crucial than firepower here, I will issue my Company with bike and jump packs. There will be no time to react before we reach the fray."

Lessall clapped his hands and said, "Then it is agreed, we shall draw out these Primarch's Own and crush them. This will be our greatest triumph and the Chapter shall at last be united under the flag of the True Believers!"

Everybody seemed pleased but Wrethan's hearts were torn. He understood that this battle was just and righteous, yet deep within a voice hissed, "You could stop this." Wrethan ignored it, the path lay before him and there were no other options. This was the way things were now and he had no choice in the matter at all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Domus Discordia Chapter 28**

Bylan was dead, his missing lower half attested to that, but that wasn't the problem. His combat knife was broken in half and his bolt-pistol was jammed but that wasn't the problem either. The problem was the rotting stench of putrefaction rising from the corpse, the lingering smell of decay that attested that he had been dead for days.

Apothecary Memnos shook his head, knowing it was far too late. Bylan had been dragged to the transit hub, along with the other bodies of the slain by their comrades. This had not been done this out of misplaced hope or a mad state of denial but as a matter of duty. They had thought that the bodies of the dead could yet have their genetic legacy saved, that their Progenoids could be harvested.

Memnos sighed, it was his most sacred duty to harvest those special organs from the dead. The implants were designed to collect and gestate special cells from every other artificial implant and so create the seeds to grow new organs. Only through these miracles of science could new sets of gene-seeds be grown, the essence of the process that turned mortal boys into Transhuman Space Marines. The Gene-seed was a Space Marine's past, present and future, their inheritance from their Primarch and their legacy unto the next generation. Sadly the moment a Space Marine died the organs began to wither, beginning an inevitable slide into uselessness. The first few hours after death were critical in ensuring the gene-seed survived, but here it had been days already. Memnos fulfilled his duty and reached into the body to check but as he suspected Bylan's progenoids had rotted already, he would have no legacy to pass on to the next generation.

Memnos sprayed his hands with sterilising fluid and stood up. Everywhere around him the Astartes of the Primarch's Own waited, guarding the transit hub with diligent vigilance. They had paused here while the Scout-novices had probed ahead, seeking out the presence of enemies. Memnos had always been puzzled by the way most mortals assumed Astartes fought, thinking that they lived their lives charging heedlessly at the foe with bolters blazing. Nothing could be further from the truth, every campaign was built on a bedrock of intelligence gathering and meticulous reconnaissance. The Codex Astartes stressed the need for detailed intelligence and with the scouts available they had been pressed into their proper role once more.

While they waited for the Scout-novices to report back the Primarch's Own kept busy. They tended their gear and renewed their vows, promising vengeance upon those who had betrayed them. Memnos walked among them and he could not help but notice the way that faces turned from him, the dark glances he received when they thought he was not looking.

It galled Memnos to be marked out so but in his hearts he could not blame them. The root cause of this war lay within the Apothecary order and with the Chaplains, those sworn to safeguard the Space Marines' bodies and souls had led them astray. Memnos still wore the white of his order, somewhat dirty now, and he knew in their eyes he was tainted by association.

Yet Memnos refused to look shamefaced as he strode up to the leaders of the Primarchs Own, he had done nothing wrong afterall. They were standing about in small groups, discussing the next course of the war and how they should fight it. In one small group Novak, Persion, Orath and the Honour Guard were talking and in another Memnos saw Captain Toran in animated discussion with Nimodes. The Scout-commander was looking greatly agitated, as if he did not like was Toran was saying.

Memnos could have listened in but he respected their privacy, he wasn't Persion after all. Instead he strode up to Furion who was talking with Jediah and Captain Maxitio and said, "Hail."

Furion turned to address him and said, "Apothecary Memnos, how did you fare?"

Memnos shook his head and said, "Dead, decayed, there was nothing left to salvage."

Jediah spat, "Damnation, we thought something from our lost could be saved. This war grows worse and worse."

Maxitio growled, "You are not alone in your grief, Seventh Company has suffered too. We should be grateful for the presence of an Apothecary, he can make a real difference here."

Memnos was glad that at least one soul was still willing to be civil and he said, "I will do what I can, yet I am but one soul."

"Much depends upon you," Furion remarked, "More than you may realise."

"How so?" Memnos asked in confusion.

Jediah spat, "The Apothecary order has become corrupted, it may fall to you to rebuild them from scratch."

Memnos took a second to follow the implications and he said, "Surely you do not mean that if we win, then we shall execute the entire order of Apothecary's."

Jediah snorted, "Do not be weak, they would show no mercy to us."

Memnos protested, "Lessall is surely deserving of death but not all of them are beyond redemption, some may yet be redeemed."

Furion fixed him with a stern gaze and said, "Are you certain of that or is it wishful thinking? Can you name one other Apothecary you currently trust?"

Memnos wanted to say the names of his compatriots, he wanted to say that they were innocent, but he could not. Deep down he knew that all his fellows were involved in the conspiracy, after their work on the visionary project they were well accustomed to keeping secrets.

Maxitio saw his downfallen expression and said, "Do not dwell, you are yet pure and from this seed a new order shall rise."

Jediah muttered, "Let us not forget that first, we have to win this war. Speaking of which…"

Memnos glanced to the side and saw Toran and Nimodes closing, drawing eyes to them. The leaders gathered together and Toran addressed them saying, "Reports are coming back to us, the scouts have found the True Believers."

Nimodes took up the narrative saying, "Fourth and Fifth Company are on the surface, advancing towards us. They are crossing the Rashack Memorial training-park in an arrowhead formation."

Memnos could picture it in his mind's eye, he had trained there as a neophyte, they all had. It was a wide-open plain, simulating grassland with little cover or protection. Jediah spoke up to say, "Out in the open and exposed, that's what I call a tempting target."

"Yes," Furion mused, "Very tempting, convenient isn't it?"

Memnos caught his tone and said, "You suspect a trap?"

Furion nodded as he explained, "Jossat is no fool, he wouldn't sit out in the open unless he wanted to be seen. Perhaps we should skirt around them and press deeper into the Fortress-Monastery."

Maxitio interjected, "That would leave us with a most dangerous foe at our backs, we cannot ignore them nor avoid contact. Trap or not, we will never have a better chance to break the True Believers, we can wipe out half their strength at a stroke."

Memnos protested, "And no better chance for them to obliterate us entirely. Even victory would cost us dear."

Jediah broke in to say, "We have the First Company, we have Terminators on our side. Even the scouts could tip the balance towards us."

However Furion pointed out, "Terminator armour will be of little use when Apocalypse Missiles are raining down from on high."

Maxitio looked thoughtful then inquired, "Is there any more word from our informant?"

Everybody glanced at Persion but he only shook his head in response. Furion sighed then said, "Then we have to decide what to do: try to avoid them or strike now?"

All eyes turned to Toran who had been silent so far. Memnos was uncertain as to what the Captain's response would be, normally he was sharp and innovative but recent losses had hurt him deeply. The loss of their Standard Bearer had wounded them all and everyone present burned for vengeance. What would Toran do, Memnos wondered, would he let his rage make his decisions? Would he risk all for revenge?

For a second Toran was silent, his augmetic eye glowing faintly then he said, "It is most certainly a trap, they seek to draw us out, to lure us into the open."

Maxitio asked, "So what do we do?"

Toran's lip curled without any warmth and stated, "We take their trap and we break it over their heads."

Furion mused, "They will be expecting a cautious approach, knowing that we will be wary."

"So we hit them harder and faster than they expect," Toran said, "We know the area well so we can emerge from underground right on top of them. Terminators at the fore, Initiates behind, scout-novices lending their strength where they can."

Memnos was unsettled to hear that and said, "This is incredibly risky, we will be putting ourselves into the jaws of the lion."

Toran nodded and replied, "I am not blind, this is dangerous but we cannot win this by being timid. To fall-back, to avoid conflict hands ultimate victory to Lessall and Samect. Sooner or later we have to meet them and it is better to do so now, before they can gather their full might."

Furion sounded reluctant as he said, "If we are to do this then we have to consider a contingency plan."

"I already have," Toran uttered, "Nimodes, it seems we are out of options."

Nimodes scowled and said, "This is insane, you can't really mean to do this."

Toran was resolute as he said, "We must, we cannot trust our fates to blind chance. The Codex demands that we have a plan for the worst-case scenario."

Nimodes looked angry as he protested, "But to do this…"

Toran replied, "I know it's extreme."

"Extreme?!" Nimodes snorted, "It's the Atomonic option."

Toran didn't flinch as he said, "You know what happens if we die here, Lessall and Samect will spread their war across the stars. The Imperium cannot survive such a betrayal, not right now. We accepted the possibility of our deaths the moment we refused to kneel to Lessall but we cannot allow the True Believers to win. It is our duty to stop them by any means necessary. We must have a failsafe to make sure that they cannot go on to fulfill their dark ambitions, no matter what it takes."

Memnos was confused and said, "What is this?"

Toran's eye snapped round and he said, "Classified, you don't need to know."

That stung Memnos deeply; it seemed that he was not still wholly trusted. Yet Jediah stepped up to say, "I am coming with you."

Nimodes blinked and said, "No, I can move more quietly on my own."

Yet Jediah pressed, "You will have a better chance of making it with someone watching your back. Besides your hands will be full carrying all the melta-bombs you will need to pull this off."

Nimodes sighed and then said, "It sits ill with me but you are right, so many things can go wrong. Your blade will be welcome."

Toran said, "The central Plasma-reactor chamber has many heat vents, you can access the cavern through any one of them."

"I know that," Nimodes snapped, "I just never thought I would be sneaking into the most volatile place on the whole damned island."

Toran stated, "I wish you well, if we fall then you are the last hope to prevent this war falling upon humanity."

Nimodes bowed and said, "Take care of the Scout-novices while I am gone."

Toran's face was grim as he replied, "I will keep them off the front line but they may have to grow up a lot faster than we ever thought."

Jediah made the sign of the Aquila then said, "One more thing, when you see Jossat, make the swine bleed for me."

"Count on it," Toran said, "Now get moving."

With that Nimodes and Jediah set off, leaving Memnos to wonder where they were going. However he had no time to ponder for Toran was already declaring, "Brothers stand ready, we move to strike at the heart of the True Believers. The time has come to claim your vengeance, our dead demand blood and we shall not disappoint them! Steel yourselves, this day we break our foes and claim our revenge!"


	29. Chapter 29

**Domus Discordia Chapter 29**

The chainsword roared in fury as it came right at his face. To Toran's eyes it seemed to be moving in slow motion, time compressing in that strange way that can only be found in the midst of combat. He knew that if the sword made contact then it would tear his helm apart and split his skull, but his arm was already moving. As the chainsword hurtled at his face Toran brought his relic blade up and knocked it aside in a flare of discharged power.

Toran's foe staggered back, auto-senses blinded by the flare and his blade a smoking ruin. Toran could see his foe's heraldry with absolute clarity, the markings of the Fourth Company declaring fealty to the True Believers. His opponent recovered almost instantly, throwing himself forward, but it was too late. Toran had brought the Sword of Thiel up and as the warrior leapt at him he brought the edge around and ripped off both his foe's arms. The warrior staggered back, blood pouring from the stumps, he tried to shout one last imprecation but Toran stabbed his blade into the neck joint and silenced his foe forever.

The True Believer collapsed, freeing Toran to assess how the battle was faring. Everywhere the Primarch's Own were engaged in a furious melee, pressing hard into the massed foe with grim determination. As planned they had emerged right on top of the True Believers and set upon them with a dreadful fury. The speed and ferocity of the assault had hit the foe hard and forced them to close their ranks tight.

Any mortal army would have been shattered by the surprise assault but sadly the True Believers remained Astartes. They had responded to the change in circumstances instantly, reforming to meet the attack and presenting a stout defence. Toran had seen a score of his best and bravest warriors fall, cut down in the white heat of combat. The white blot of Apothecary Memnos was hurrying between them, to collect the gene-seed, discharging his duty even in the midst of battle. Mud and blood were everywhere, the noise and thunder of battle were deafening, yet neither side was willing to give an inch and they laid upon each other a most terrible slaughter.

Toran could see his Command Squad fighting valiantly, giving no quarter and expecting none. Persion was wielding his Friction Axe, leaving glowing trails in the air as he cleaved at the enemy. Conventional weapons were no match for his burning weapon and he shattered blades and bolter stocks with contemptuous disdain, before cutting the threads of his foe's lives. Meanwhile Furion was wrestling with a True Believer, their plates screeching on each other as they fought for dominance. Furion held the advantage in both height and strength and he clubbed his foe down to one knee. Quick as a flash Furion was behind him, one arm wrapped around his neck. The True Believer struggled and writhed but Furion was relentless, he applied overwhelming pressure and in one jerk broke the Astartes' neck, reinforced bones proving no match for the giant's might.

Elsewhere Novak was dancing with a pair of True Believers, his sword shimmering and flashing as he weaved and twisted away from blows. His sword never seemed to miss an opportunity, every vulnerability exploited to the full. Joints were pierced and tendons severed as Novak wove past, leaving his foes dying and helpless in his wake, easy prey for the following Primarch's Own.

Then from the ranks of the True Believers emerged another warrior, one in a golden helm and bearing a long broadsword. He was the mightiest of the True Believers, the Champion of Fourth Company. He pointed at Novak and yelled, "Face me disbeliever!" Novak raised his own power sword in salute and took a single step forward, but before he could engage another force intervened. A golden axe emerged out of nowhere and caught the opposing Champion in the flank. Armour crumpled and blood poured out freely as the Champion staggered and he was left helpless to resist as the axe flashed again and took his head off.

The Honour Guard stepped back and swung again meeting the next True Believer with deadly skill while Novak indignantly called out, "That one was mine!"

"Don't blame me if you can't keep up!" shouted the Honour Guard, his axe reaping a deadly tally that the Champion could barely match.

Toran returned his attention to the fight, hacking, slashing and parrying with automatic skill, meeting every opponent and dispatching them one by one. Yet even as he fought a part of his mind was monitoring the wider battle, his Transhuman mind and officer training effortlessly compartmentalising the situation and multi-tasking. The Primarch's Own were pushing forward, driving the True Believers back. The Third and the Seventh were formed into an arrowhead, driving hard into the foe. Behind them came the ranks of the Scout-Novices, sheltering behind the wall of Ceramite armour. They intervened where they could, adding their numbers to the worst fights and turning the tide. Casualties were growing among them, their light armour no match for the weapons arrayed against them, but they were making a difference and that was what counted.

The Primarch's Own were indeed taking casualties but they were inflicting far more, their positioning, formation and fervour creating a deadly combination. But what was really swinging the whole battle their way was the presence of the First Company. To Toran's left strode those mighty heroes, their weapons gleaming and their zeal unmatched. The Vanguard Veterans were blurs of lightning, their power swords smiting all who dared challenge them. None could stand against them and so far not one veteran had fallen.

One step behind came the Sternguard, their courage no less and their fervour inspiring to behold. Toran saw the way they fought and realised that this was the result of centuries of practice, two styles honed to perfection and complimenting each other perfectly. One group fought with zeal and ferocity, the other with precision and relentlessness, it was a deadly combination indeed.

To Toran's right marched the Terminators, led by Sergeant Orath, their weapons reaping a fearful tally. They were unstoppable juggernauts of destruction, mowing down anything in their path. Toran had previously fought in Tactical Dreadnought plate and he knew it was a matter of momentum and relentlessness, of keeping moving no matter what. Orath was proving to be a master of this, better than the Captain had ever been, his pace never slowing nor deviating. Toran was amazed by the way he shrugged off blows from his storm shield without even breaking stride, while his Thunder hammer rose and fell over and over, steady as a metronome. Toran watched in astonishment as Orath's hammer came down and caved in a True Believer's chest then it struck again and a warrior staggered away missing an arm, again it fell and a spine was shattered, leaving a warrior sprawled in the blood-soaked mud.

Toran felt his hearts soar and he dared to believe that the Primarch's Own were on the cusp of victory, he raised his voice and cried, "Forward Brothers, give them hell!"

Furion was behind him and took up the cry, "This is the time, this is the hour of our victory!"

Victory was close at hand but the True Believers were not done yet. The line parted and Toran saw a group of warriors coming forward, who stood head and shoulders over their kin. Their armour was encased in thick exoskeletons of ceramite and pistons, reinforced plates layered over their bodies and embracing them in a protective shell. Their chests bore rank after rank of gleaming bolter barrels and from their arms hung whirring siege drills, blurring as they spun and boasting underslung flamer nozzles.

Toran recognised the sight instantly and shouted, "Beware, Centurions!"

Behind him he heard Persion yell, "Warp Hells, somebody went and remembered the Reserves' armouries!"

There was no more time for talk as Toran saw the Centurions charge into the fray, their weapons blazing. Sheets of burning promethium ejected forth, engulfing the Primarch's Own and Toran saw several life signs wink out in his helm display. Then the Centurions hit the line, throwing bodies away as gory wrecks of broken bone and dismembered limbs. One Marine was even swept up in a Centurion's embrace, the siege drills screamed as they carved into his armour and flesh, reducing him to a spray of gore.

Toran knew that this was the moment the whole battle would pivot upon and he leapt into the fray, crying, "Here, over here!"

The leading Centurion saw him coming and cried, "The murderer!"

Instantly the Centurion swung about, coming to meet the Captain's charge. A massive siege drill swung at Toran but he ducked and let it pass over him. He jabbed his sword at a knee joint but snarled in frustration as the point skittered off a thick plate. A return blow came back and he twisted aside, yet the spinning drills scored across his pauldron and ripped the outer ceramite layer off, leaving a deep groove upon his shoulder.

Toran's anger rose, a tide of red fury that made him want to launch a frenzy of mindless blows, but he knew this was a fool's plan. The Centurion had mass and strength on his side and in a test of might, there could only be one victor. Toran forced himself to pause, letting a blow skim past his face so close that his auto-senses registered the air moving then he struck, neatly severing an exposed piston joint. The Centurion's right arm froze solid and at that moment Toran struck, plunging the Sword of Thiel up and into the exposed armpit. The weapon struck deeply, causing a rush of blood to spill forth and then the point found both hearts and sliced them in half. The Centurion gasped as his life was cut short, then Toran withdrew his blade, leaving his foe a macabre statue, the armour holding the dead warrior upright.

While Toran had been distracted another Centurion was desperately flailing about in circles. He was spinning on the spot because Furion was clinging to his back, holding on tightly to the thrashing warrior. The Centurion bucked hard and at last managed to knock Furion loose but too late realised that he had been left a present, a Krak grenade, lodged into the pistons of his shoulder. With a dull crump the grenade detonated, blasting the Centurion's head apart and reducing his skull to broken splinters. The Centurion paused for a second then slowly keeled over, hitting the ground with an almighty thud.

The last Centurion was duelling Orath, giant against giant, champion against champion. The siege drills whirled and screeched as they struck but the Terminator was undaunted. He raised his storm shield and caught a blow dead-on, stopping it mid-swing. The spinning drill bits screamed as they gouged at the thick plate, desecrating the proud colours, but the shield was the product of ancient science and it held true.

The Centurion roared in fury and pressed harder, driving Orath's boots into the thick mud but the Terminator could not be moved. Deceptively slowly Orath's Thunder hammer swung around and caught the outstretched arm at the elbow. There was a clap of discharged power and the whole arm fell to the ground, severed in two by the mighty blow. Instantly Orath stepped up and cried, "For Terra!" as he drove his hammer forward, smashing it into the Centurion's chest. Armour crumpled, plates exploded and reinforced bone shattered as the Centurion's chest imploded, killing him instantly.

The last Centurion fell and Toran breathed deeply, thinking for a moment that the worst had passed. Yet at that moment a cry rang forth, "Captain, enemies behind!" Toran's eyes snapped around and he gasped as he saw a wall of blue Ceramite closing from the south, a hundred Astartes charging forth. They bore the heraldry of Sixth Company and they were closing from the rear.

Toran's mind spun but before he could react another cry went up and he looked north seeing a second mass of blue approaching. These ones were moving swiftly, mounted on bikes or moving in great bounds as jump packs flung them high. They were the warriors of Eighth Company, coming in fast. Toran gasped as the realisation hit him that the Primarch's Own were outnumbered and surrounded on all sides and he gasped, "By the Maelstrom, the trap is revealed."

"What do we do?" called Persion in dismay.

For once Toran had no answer and all he could say was, "We take as many of them with us as we can!"


	30. Chapter 30

**Domus Discordia Chapter 30**

The thunder of battle filled the cold night air, carrying with it the din of bolters firing and the screeching of blades as they carved Ceramite. Explosions boomed mixed with the roaring of Chainswords and the actinic sizzle of power weapons. The valiant cries of Marines fighting mixed with the roars of triumph and groans of defeat as lives were ended and valorous Astartes fell in droves.

Reclusiarch Wrethan could hear it all from where he was laying, stretched out prone on the soil. He had his Crozius in one hand and his bolt pistol was fully loaded but neither had been yet deployed. All around him the Astartes of Sixth Company lurked, eager for the coming fight. Their location had been carefully chosen, close enough to hear the fight and intervene but not so close as to risk being seen. Now the Sixth was laying in wait, preparing to spring the trap upon the disbelievers and they were growing impatient.

Wrethan shared their frustration, he could hear the fighting and was becoming tetchy at the delay. He was not looking forward to spilling more blood, though he would comply with his duty, but the waiting was driving him mad. He tried to calm his mind, reminding himself that they had to draw out the disbelievers and lock them into a fixed battle before engaging. This would be the True Believers final triumph, the rendering of justice for the murder of their Chapter Master, but Wrethan could not help but wonder why they weren't already closing the trap.

He glanced over to where the leaders of the True Believers lay: Lessall and Samect alongside Captain Erathor. They had joined the Reserve Company in readiness for their triumph, all of them eager to put an end to this war. Yet for some reason Lessall seemed reluctant to give the order. Wrethan inched closer and called, "The enemy is engaged, should we not advance?"

Lessall shook his head and replied, "Not yet."

Samect interjected impatiently, "Hakulo is waiting for us to move first, we need to spring the trap soon."

But Lessall refused, saying, "Hold on a little longer."

Erathor also protested, "Brothers are dying, Jossat and Tygra bleed lives while we dither."

Lessall looked away and hissed, "Let them bleed, just a little more."

Wrethan was taken aback by that, confusion arising within him. Then he saw Samect and Erathor turn their helmed heads away as if shamed and the truth hit him: Lessall wanted Jossat to suffer. The Fourth Captain was his main rival for leadership and the Chief Apothecary schemed to put him in his place. Lessall would let Brothers die just to weaken his rival, then swoop in to save the day. Disgust filled Wrethan and in his mind a voice hissed, "He is spending the lives of noble warriors, just to secure his position!"

Wrethan could do nothing but lay there, fuming as True Believers died. It gnawed at him but there was nothing to do save wait. Minutes crawled by glacially slowly then at last Lessall said, "That's enough, we move now."

Samect gripped his Crozius tightly and rose up shouting, "This is it, follow us into the fray. Death to the disbelievers!"

As one, Sixth Company arose and leapt into action, instantly launching into a dead sprint. Wrethan rose up with them and set off at a dead run. Spread before them was a scene of carnage, Brother set against Brother, bringing their fullest wrath to bear. Wrethan could see the lines between them, the divisions made clear as if the two halves of the Storm Herald's soul were laid bare before him. The True Believers were suffering greatly and being driven back but they still fought and the disbelievers had suffered heavy casualties of their own.

Wrethan gripped his Crozius tightly as they raced towards the battle, seeing the distance shrink before him. An armoured Astartes could move astonishingly fast across rough terrain and they covered the distance with remarkable speed. As they ran Erathor called, "Forward Brothers, we shall hit them first, Eighth Company will move up in support. Strike hard and give no quarter!"

Joyously Samect cried, "For the Divine Emperor!"

The line of blue ceramite swelled before Wrethan and he saw the rear rank turning to face them. He readied his Crozius and then with a crash of ceramite the two forces slammed into each other. Wrethan's world shrank as an enemy turned to face him and he was shocked to see the heraldry of the Third Company, this was one of his former comrades.

However Wrethan had no time to gawp for a combat knife came at him, without hesitation or restraint. Wrethan responded on instinct, his muscles reacting without conscious thought. He jerked his arm up and knocked the blade aside, so that it merely scored across his breastplate. In return he swung his Crozius but the enemy twisted so that the blow dissipated harmlessly off a pauldron. The knife came up and cut a furrow over the Reclusiarch's heart, taking off a decorative skull. Wrethan snarled in anger and jabbed forward, hitting the Astartes in the stomach. His Crozius flared and unleashed a blast of concussive power that doubled the warrior over and Wrethan instantly brought his Crozius down to shatter the skull.

As his foe collapsed Wrethan felt his righteous anger stir, at last here was a battle worthy of his wrath. His foes fought under the banners of murders, they deserved his hatred. The True Believers pressed forward, driving their foes back. The disbelievers struggled to resist but they were caught between two fires, the hammer of the Sixth and the anvil of the Fourth and Fifth Companies.

Wrethan saw Samect was striding through the battle, wielding his Crozius like a blacksmith's hammer. Foe after foe crumbled at his feet and he cut a glorious figure as he bellowed catechisms of hatred. Lessall was one step behind, wielding a plain chainsword, a humble weapon for such a potent figure but no less deadly for it. Elsewhere Erathor was engaging with his Lightning claws, cutting, slicing and stabbing in a dazzling display of skill.

Wrethan heard Samect cry, "See the doubters fall, the Divine Emperor favours us!"

In response Erathor shouted, "Hakulo better hurry up or there won't be any left for him!"

The battle was swinging inexorably their way but then the crowd opened up before Wrethan and he saw a new figure enter the fray. A tall Marine in impeccable heraldry was moving to intercept, holding a thunder hammer that boasted a broad square on one side and while a shining eagle's head formed the other. His resplendent colours and Mark VIII armour left no doubt as to who this was: Maxitio, Captain of the Seventh and proud disbeliever.

Wrethan felt his anger rise at the sight of this defiant cur and he leapt forward shouting, "Death comes for you!"

Maxitio saw him coming and shouted, "I have dispatched one Chaplain already, you shall share his fate!"

Wrethan saw Maxitio's hammer hurtle at him and he dove sideways, letting the blow pass an inch from his body. The Reclusiarch swung in return, aiming for the head, but Maxitio ducked the blow and the crackling mace passed by without harm. Wrethan wasn't done though, he followed this up with a knee to the helm that snapped Maxitio's head back and made him stagger momentarily.

Wrethan roared and tried to smite him but Maxitio lifted his Thunder hammer to block and the two weapons collided. Blazing Crozius met shining hammer and the two weapons erupted blinding light as conflicting energy fields exploded with raw power. Concussive potential met rippling distortion-field and the result was a titanic outpouring of light and heat and noise, ringing louder than bomb detonating. Everybody paused for a moment as the brilliant energies flared, battering all nearby and knocking them away in a blinded fugue.

Wrethan found himself staggering backwards, dazed by the outpouring of energies. He stumbled as he tried to keep his feet under him and desperately shook his head to clear his auto-senses. He knew he was momentarily vulnerable but he was helpless to defend himself for a perilous second. Surprisingly no follow-up blow came and as Wrethan's vision cleared he blinked to restore his sight, but what he saw took him completely by surprise.

Maxitio had staggered backwards, himself blinded by the discharging weapons. He had been left equally vulnerable and in that moment someone else had seized the moment. Standing before Maxitio was Captain Erathor, with both his lightning claws already plunged deep into his chest. Blood welled up around the crackling claws as Maxitio looked at Erathor in stunned disbelief and shock.

Erathor spoke and his words actually sounded regretful as he stated, "I am sorry my old friend, but it had to be this way."

"You…" Maxitio whispered but then Erathor ripped the claws out again, tearing out both of his hearts and leaving a massive crater in his breastplate.

Silently Maxitio's corpse toppled backwards to the ground, his Thunder hammer falling from his dead hand to be stomped into the mud. Erathor stood over him, utterly still, seemingly saddened by what he had done, staring at the blood on his lightning claws. Wrethan wanted to speak to him, to reassure him that he had done the right thing but there was no time for sentiment in the midst of battle. As events were about to prove all too well.

Suddenly a cry arose from behind, one of danger and alarm. Wrethan spun about and was shocked as he saw a scene of utter madness. To the rear of Sixth Company the warriors of Eighth had finally arrived, bringing their fury to the fight. They were closing fast, a wide spread of bikes with bounding Assault Marines soaring above. They were moving with impressive speed and ferocity, a Codex rapid-assault, executed perfectly save for the fact that it was aimed at completely the wrong target.

Wrethan gasped in horror as he realised the Eighth wasn't moving to support the True Believers, but to attack them. One second later the front rank of bikes opened fire, creating a blizzard of bolter rounds that smashed into Sixth Company's rear. Here and there Attack bikes brought heavier weapons to bear, unleashing torrents of firepower, right into the unprepared True Believers. Transhuman bodies were blown open as their armour was sundered and enhanced lifeblood spilled out onto the dirt.

Wrethan couldn't believe his eyes as the bikes charged, firing relentlessly. Just before impact they peeled off, breaking left and right to race past the reeling True Believers, but this was no respite. On blazing trails of fire Assault Marines fell from the skies, smashing into the bloodied lines with great eruptions of dirt and mud. Chainswords roared and bolt pistols thundered as the Eighth Company unleashed their fury, wreaking a great slaughter wherever they set foot.

Wrethan mind was numb with shock and he heard Lessall's voice arising to cry, "What the hell are they doing?!"

"This is madness!" Samect called in horror, "Stop this, stop it now!"

Then Wrethan spied Captain Hakulo, falling from above on wings of fire. He carried his great spear in his hands and as he plummeted he angled it downwards, lancing it right through the hearts of the first warrior he met. Hakulo smashed into the ground, bearing his foe over, then bounded up like a coiled spring, using his momentum to the fullest. His spear was a dazzling smear of light, constantly moving to stab, tear and disembowel, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. None could stay his wrath and he roared his fury for all to hear, "Die treacherous filth!"

The shock and the horror of the sight was unbelievable, the whole world turned upon its head and yet Wrethan's conditioned mind was already processing the tactical reality. He finally grasped that this was no mistake and now the True Believers were the ones caught between two fires.

Wrethan raised his voice and cried, "We must withdraw!"

Lessall's head snapped around and he snarled furiously, "No, we must fight on. We can still finish this!"

Wrethan shouted angrily, "Open your eyes, the battle is lost, we must fall-back and preserve what forces we can!"

"This can't be happening," Lessall yelled in frantic denial, "What madness is this?!"

Wrethan furiously grabbed the Chief Apothecary's arm and shook him as he yelled right into his face, "Wake up damn you, Hakulo and the Eighth have switched sides! The disbelievers aren't the ones caught in a trap, we are!"


	31. Chapter 31

**Domus Discordia Chapter 31**

Two enemies came at him at once, their knives gleaming and bolt-pistols loaded. They were fast, aggressive and determined to end Toran's life. The Captain saw the True Believers coming but he did not fall back, instead he charged right at them. The first let loose a wild cry and tried to stab down into his wrecked pauldron, hoping the weakened armour would give way. Toran hastily twisted his shoulder back and veered his relic blade's course. The blade took off the hand, with the knife still gripped in it and his return stroke tore out his foe's guts, leaving entrails spilling out as the warrior died.

Toran had no time to congratulate himself, for the other True Believer seized the opportunity to level his bolt pistol and unleash a burst of fire that took Toran in the side. The Captain felt the impacts, like a pile-driver ramming into him, making his bones rattle. The outer ceramite layer of his plate cracked under the strain but his blessed Artificer armour was a revered relic and its Spirit proved true, deflecting the worst damage away. Toran reacted instantly, sweeping his blade low to shear off the True Believer's leg, making him fall to the mud with a cry, before Toran finished him off with a thrust through the neck.

Toran felt his side aching with agony but he mastered it, he had suffered far worse than this before. He took the moment to look about, seeing the battle raging. Everywhere he looked the Primarch's Own were beset by enemies, surrounded on all sides. Noble warriors were dying everywhere as the trap closed around them. Toran cursed himself, he had led his Marines into this bloodbath, confident that they could handle anything and now his Brothers were paying the price for his hubris.

An explosion of mud and blood ripped Toran's attention back to the fight and he leapt into the fray. He cut down foes with his blade and fought with every fibre of this being to reverse this disaster. But despite all his fury he was but only one Space Marine and he could not turn the tide alone. A terrible realisation told him that this battle would be the end of the Primarch's Own, they would die here in defeat. Yet at the back of his mind he remembered Nimodes' mission, the Primarch's Own may fall but at least the True Believers would have no opportunity to enjoy their victory.

The thought of that lit a spark in Toran's mind and he realised there was one other thing he hadn't tried, one person he had yet to call upon. In desperation Toran lifted his voice and shouted, "Persion, are you still alive?!"

From nearby a voice cried, "It will take more than this to kill me!"

Toran fended off a blow as he yelled, "Persion, drop the jamming and open up the vox. Send on all channels: Calth Stands!"

A mortal would have questioned the bizarre order but Persion obeyed instantly and Toran was left to hold the line. A forest of knives and bolter barrels came at him and all he could do was commit himself to the fight, fighting desperately to stay alive. The world shrank down around him and all he could see was the next foe and the next and the next as the True Believers closed in on all sides. Yet even as he fought a part of Toran's mind was wondering if his last desperate plan would work, would the suspicion he had harboured for so long prove to be correct?

Suddenly and completely without warning the line of enemies wavered, the True Believers pausing in their attacks as they reformed in response to something Toran couldn't see. His hearts leapt and for a moment he hoped against hope that his desperate plan had worked. Then he heard Persion cry, "Captain, I don't believe it, they've turned! Eighth Company has turned on the True Believers!"

"I knew it," Toran shouted in return, "It's Hakulo, he's Gorgall's informant!"

The True Believers wavered before the Captain and then they began to fall back, withdrawing as the vice began to close around them. However Toran wasn't prepared to let them go so easily and cried, "This is our chance, hit them with everything you've got and give no quarter!"

True to his word Toran leapt into the fray, piling into the enemy without restraint. He ploughed into their ranks, cutting down as many as he could, driving them back step by step. The Sword of Thiel cleaved through their defences and none could withstand the potency of the ancient relic weapon. The battle hung in the balance and Toran knew this was the critical moment. Then the ranks parted and he saw a figure he recognised all too well, Captain Jossat, coming towards him with his double-headed axe already dripping blood. Toran's anger surged as he saw Bylan's killer, he wanted vengeance with his own two hands more than anything else but that was not why he moved to intercept. Jossat was the True Believer's Captain, killing him would break their morale. It didn't matter who killed him as long as he was dead, at least that was what Toran told himself.

Toran charged at Jossat shouting, "Primarch's Own, take him down!"

Jossat raised his axe high and shouted in reply, "For the Divine Emperor!"

With a thunder of clashing ceramite the two forces collided, hacking and stabbing at each other in a frenzy of carnage. Toran found himself confronting Jossat in the midst of the melee and he launched himself forward, with his sword already lunging. Jossat however moved like lightning and deflected it with his axe, then he swung back in a stroke meant to take Toran's head.

Toran parried and countered again but he could not break through Jossat's skilful defence and he was forced to dodge and weave to avoid being cut down by counterstrokes. The pair of them danced back and forth, each one utterly committed to his rival's death, but neither could quite manage to land the killing blow.

Jossat dodged another blow but then unexpectedly kicked out and drove Toran back a step as he barked, "Didn't you learn your lesson last time? You can't beat me and this time I shall take your head."

Toran regained his stance and growled, "I don't care, so long as you are dead."

"Pathetic and weak," Jossat sneered, "Soon you will fall, just like Maxitio."

"Maxitio?" Toran gasped in denial.

"Oh yes," Jossat gloated, "Maxitio is dead, I saw him fall."

Hearing those words made something snap within Toran, a dam holding back all his anguish and grief gave way and flooded his soul with a tide of red rage. Once more Toran saw all those he had lost, his dead Brothers laying in the field as well as Maxitio, Gorgall and Bylan. The torrent of woe filled Toran's hearts and he responded the only way his Hypno-indoctrination would allow, with an explosion of hate-fueled violence.

Filled with anguish Toran threw himself at Jossat, screaming his rage for all to hear. He poured everything he had into an onslaught of blows, a frenzied blur of relentless attacks that drove his enemy backwards. Jossat was taken aback by the sudden hurricane of strikes, the unexpected torrent of butchery catching him by surprise. He had thought he knew Toran's limits, but he had never expected him to be capable of anything like this.

Jossat tried to defend himself from the furious assault but Toran's sword moved like liquid lightning, shattering his defence and forcing him to stumble backwards in a frantic retreat. Toran pursued pace for pace, never relenting in his onslaught as he roared his hate. Grief and rage filled him but he did not try to resist, instead he channelled it, stoking his zeal into a blazing inferno. Anguish burned in Toran's hearts, forcing him to move faster than he ever thought possible. Hatred surged within him, lending unearthly strength to his arms. Relentlessly he came on, hacking and smashing Jossat's defence into pieces, then in one almighty blow Toran swung his sword in an overhead strike. Jossat lifted his axe laterally to block but fired by an inferno of hate Toran threw everything he had into the strike and in one massive surge of strength he smashed the edge of his sword right through the axe's haft, sundering it completely.

Jossat was aghast but before he could react Toran tore downwards, catching him right between his neck and the pauldron. Armour crumpled before the Sword of Thiel and it carved into his torso, ripping on and on until it came to a dead halt right in the centre of Jossat's chest. Then Toran bellowed right into Jossat's faceplate, "That was for Bylan you bastard!"

Jossat stood there with blood running freely from the immense wound bisecting his chest. He gasped, "How did you…" then the life fled from his eyes and he slumped, pulling the sword down with him as his body went limp. Suddenly the True Believers wavered, their Captain was dead, their position untenable and their line was broken. It was too much for them, they took a backwards step and then they withdrew, falling back before the wrath of the Primarch's Own. It would be an exaggeration to say that they ran, they were yet Astartes and their withdrawal was professionally done to the last, but there could be no doubt that they were beaten.

Toran was left behind, feeling utterly drained as his rage guttered out and strength deserted his limbs. Wearily he pulled his sword from Jossat's corpse, he knew he should have been jubilant, he should have been holding his blade aloft in victory and make a triumphant cry but in truth he felt utterly wrung out. His body stung head to toe from hyper-adrenaline and his implants felt hot where they were working to their limits. All Toran wanted to do right then was keel over and let his enhanced body restore itself but his mind was churning and his eyes were fixed upon the piles of the dead all around, far too many of them from his side.

Toran heard the sound of many boots approaching and he knew that his Marines spirit couldn't survive if they saw their Captain looking weak. For his Brother's sakes, Toran stomped about on numb feet, facing his comrades. The ragged survivors of the Primarch's Own gathered around Toran, they were torn, bloodied and in no state to give pursuit to their fleeing foes but they still had cries of victory and triumph on their lips. Everybody surrounded Toran, cheering him and crying his name over and over like he was some epic hero.

Toran felt their adoration wash over him but it did not elate him, it made him feel ashamed. Nobody else seemed to understand how close they had come to total defeat and that they had been saved only by the most desperate of gambles. It wasn't Toran who had turned the tide, it had been Hakulo. Deep within Toran knew that he didn't deserve this adulation and he raised his hands for silence.

The crowd fell hushed and then Toran proclaimed, "Brothers, you give me too much praise. This is not my victory, it belongs to you all! It was your courage, your blood and your sacrifice that held the line this day. I am humbled to be in the presence of such heroes and I am amazed by your valour and bravery. Truly there are no finer Space Marines in the galaxy than you! I wish I could fete you all properly but sadly our fight is not yet complete. The True Believers are beaten but they not dead, rest assured that they will return to fight again. So dress your wounds, tend to the injured and prepare for the next fight. This war is far from over yet!"


	32. Chapter 32

**Domus Discordia Chapter 32**

Smoke rose into the heavens, plumes of dirty ash obscuring the twinkling stars. It arose from the burning grass, where fires and explosions had devastated the ground. There was blood in the smoke, thick Transhuman blood, being carried upwards by the rising heat and filling the air with its unmistakable tang.

Everywhere the dead lay in piles, bitter enemies once more united in death. They embraced as long-lost friends, their enmity forgotten now that their mortality had expired. Between them the living moved with haste, separating out the dead and quickly checking the bodies. Respect was given where possible but proper honours would have to wait, for now military needs took priority. Ammunition was collected and weapons checked for functionality, blades were taken by fresh hands and on rare occasions a living soul was found, which would prompt urgent calls for Apothecary Memnos.

Amid the bedlam Captain Toran stood, watching his Marines work. He had removed his helm and the firelight reflecting off his augmetic eye cast his face in a strange mien, one that made him look grim indeed. He knew his forces could not linger long, they were exposed here and had to find cover before their enemies remembered about the super-heavy wall-guns that they still controlled. Outwardly Toran looked calm and collected but his mind kept returning to the battle, to how closely they had courted disaster and he could not turn his eyes from the piles of the dead.

Toran knew that responsibility for the death toll lay with him, he had led his Marines into this bloodbath and only been saved by the miraculous intervention of Captain Hakulo. He had known that this battle would be risky but in hindsight he realised he had been blithely overconfident, convinced that his forces could handle anything. Doubt was not an emotion that dominated an Astartes' mindset, they were supposed to take action without hesitation or compunction but the conclusion kept presenting itself: he had made a mistake, a big goddam mistake.

Toran's thoughts were interrupted by a heavy footfall as he heard Furion approaching, his helm was also off and his expression was dour. Toran knew what was to come and before the Sergeant could speak he commanded, "Just tell me."

Furion's gaze was steady but his voice was grim as he said, "I have the butcher's bill, three First-Company warriors fell, two vanguards and a sternguard. The Scout-novices were behind the front line but they suffered too, twenty-seven of them were killed. Third Company… the Third lost thirty-one Brothers and Seventh lost thirty-three, including Captain Maxitio."

Toran's head sank in remorse and he groaned, "Ninety-four Brothers, in one battle. It is far worse than I imagined, a terrible day indeed."

Furion replied, "It wasn't completely one-sided, the True Believers lost more lives than we did. Early estimates predict they lost half their forces in this battle."

"Small comfort," Toran lamented, "Losing a Company's worth of Space Marines, in any other conflict I would be sentenced to a Penitent Crusade for my grievous error."

Furion stepped closer and objected, "Captain, you can't blame yourself."

"Can't I?" Toran snapped, "I knew this was a trap and yet I blundered in without a thought. At this rate there won't be anything left of the Chapter when the war is done."

Furion shook his head and implored, "We can't afford to have you second-guessing yourself, you made the best strategic decision you could with the information you had available. You have to accept that and move forward."

Toran wasn't consoled and said, "I should have found a better way. That's what everyone expects of me, to always have a brilliant idea to hand."

But Furion rebuked, "What were the alternatives? To sulk about underground, to fall back and harass the foe or try to sneak past them? You know they would have run us down, picked us off one at a time or closed from the rear and obliterated us. This battle was unavoidable; you know it to be true. We were presented with a plethora of bad options and you chose the only one that gave us a faint hope of success."

Toran confessed, "I believed I wasn't letting my heart rule my heads, but I was lying to myself. Bylan was killed and I wanted revenge for his death, I wanted Jossat's head."

"So did I," Furion murmured.

Toran blinked in surprise and said, "You did?"

"Aye," Furion explained, "We all did, every last one of us wanted blood, not just for Bylan but for all our lost. Any other Brother in that moment would have made the same choice you did, honour demanded no less. Don't censure yourself for having a heart, under all our gene-forging and hypno-indoctrination, we remain human and not machines. Surprisingly, despite all that golden heraldry and your fancy sword, you are still a mere Space Marine, just like the rest of us. It does a leader good to be reminded that he's not better than the men he commands, the day you think you're better than everyone else is the day you don't deserve to lead."

Toran drew in a breath and said, "You're right, as always. I am wasting time berating myself while duty calls."

"Come then," Furion said, "Walk with me, let our Brothers see you being confident and see in turn that they still trust you."

Together the pair set off, walking through the smoking remains of the battle. Toran saw his Marines diligently tending to their duties and that none of them looked doubtful. They were firm and sure of purpose, convinced that they had done their duty and even the loses did not turn them from the conviction that had fought a righteous battle. Many of them saw the pair pass and they raised their fists triumphantly, quietly cheering their Captain for this great victory. Witnessing their faith and trust humbled Toran and he knew that whatever victories were laid at his feet sprang from the courage of Brothers such as these; it was they who were the heroes, not him.

As the pair walked they spied Memnos kneeling to tend to the injured, aided by Novak and Persion. Toran paused to inquire, "Apothecary, how fare the wounded?"

Memnos spat on the ground and said, "Blooded and messy, but they'll live."

Persion looked up to state, "Memnos is being modest, a dozen Brothers are only breathing because of his ministrations.

Toran agreed, "I seem to recall being somewhat brusque towards you Memnos. I offer apologies, I see now that Lessall's crimes have no bearing upon you."

Memnos shrugged off the sentiment as he stood up to say, "We have a serious problem, my supplies are exhausted and my canopic-jars are filled to capacity. I can't properly store all this gene-seed I've recovered, we need to get to an Apothecarion urgently or the sacred Progenoids will wither."

Toran nodded and confirmed, "Then we will make it a priority."

Suddenly from behind them a voice called, "Well, you'd better hurry up about it, we're wasting time here."

Toran turned to look behind and was surprised to see the brutal form of Eighth Captain Hakulo standing there. The Lord Executioner had taken off his Mark VI helm, with its fanged maw, to reveal a sharp angular face with the pale complexion of one born to the secondary-recruiting world Trux. Hakulo's thruster nozzles shimmered with heat, from the repeated use of his jump pack and he was holding his power spear over one shoulder, stained with clotted blood. He had approached impressively quietly for such a renowned warrior and was now looking at them all with an expectant air.

This was the first time Toran had laid eyes upon Hakulo since the war had started and he bowed low in gratitude saying, "Brother-Captain, I am honoured to greet you in person. Words cannot express the debt we owe you, you saved all our lives."

"You called, I answered," Hakulo replied gruffly then he eyed Toran's battered armour saying, "You look a mess, you never did learn how to swing that sword properly."

Toran wasn't surprised by the gruff tone, Hakulo was a fierce and brutal warrior with little to no patience, or at least that was the impression he endeavoured to give. Toran drew in a breath and stated, "I confess, I was surprised it was you who responded to our call, I knew Gorgall had an inside man but not who it was. I had ruled out Jossat but as to the rest..."

"Ah, nobody suspects the stupid savage," Hakulo remarked with a grin, "I've been running loops around the True Believers for ages. Keeping noble Brothers out of their grasping hands and mucking up their vox-net."

"Wait, what?!" Persion spluttered in surprise, "I'm the one who's been doing that."

Hakulo snorted in amusement and said, "You really think one Brother can keep an entire vox-net crippled? You're good but not that good. While you've been leading their vox-specialists a merry chase, my Marines have been sabotaging them left, right and centre."

Toran saw Persion's crestfallen expression and he hurriedly covered saying, "We must not linger here, what is the strategic situation?"

Hakulo shrugged his spear and said, "I've been busy leading the rest of my squads to hunt down those fleeing mongrels and slaughter as many as we could catch. We chased them all the way up to the inner defences surrounding the heart of the Fortress-Monastery before we were forced to break off. We couldn't risk getting any closer without being decimated, only a concentrated assault can break those guns. Rough guess, I'd say a Company and half of the scum got away to fight another day."

Furion declared, "Eighth Company's presence gives us the edge in numbers, but breaking those guns will be a bloody slog. They were installed in the rebuilding, designed to repulse any enemy who managed to set foot upon the island. The True Believers can wait behind the inner defences and pick us off with ease; a direct assault is out of the question."

"I will pay any price required to end this," Hakulo said dismissively then he glanced about, "Where the hell is Maxitio?"

Toran replied sadly, "Maxitio fell in the battle."

"Damnation," Hakulo spat, "That's a rank shame, he was a good one. His honour was so rigid he'd snap in half before he would bend, but I wouldn't have had him any other way. It never felt right lying to him."

"About that," Novak interjected, "How long were you spying for Gorgall?"

"Since the start," Hakulo answered, "When Lessall and Samect approached us Erathor lapped it up but Maxitio and Judio stormed off in a huff. I however played it smart, I waited until their suspicions were allayed then I told Gorgall every word. He and Phalros ordered me to continue to be their spy, its how they held their own while surrounded by rivals."

A thought occurred to Toran and he said, "Wasn't there any warning that Gorgall's life was in danger?"

"None," Hakulo replied, "Lessall and Samect kept it quiet, as far as we Captains were concerned their hands were clean. They went to extraordinary lengths to paint you as the murderer."

Toran accepted this and he spoke quickly as his thoughts spilled out, "Then the majority of the True Believers think that they are righteous and we are dishonoured. They will fight to the death for a principle, as would we. Yet if we undercut their morale, show them that they serve the deceivers and assassins, it will undermine their spirit and weaken their resolve."

"How the hell would you do that?" Hakulo asked.

Memnos stepped up and said, "I have seen proof that Lessall plotted the assassination, there are records in the Primus-Apothecarion, undeniable proof none could dispute. As I pointed out earlier…"

Toran felt a stab of self-recrimination, knowing they could have done this much earlier but he suppressed it saying, "Now the time is right. We need to go there anyway, the gene-seed must be saved."

Hakulo didn't look impressed as he remarked, "You go, I have places to be."

Toran blinked in surprise saying, "Brother-Captain, with all due respect we cannot be working at cross-purposes."

Hakulo snorted as remarked, "Stop underestimating me, I'm not trying to undercut you. I'm new here and you are in overall command but understand that I have a mission to complete. While the True Believers were busy executing the First Company I was secreting as many as I could somewhere safe. I have two-score of the Chapter's Finest tucked away in cells, itching to be let out and join the fight."

Toran was impressed and said, "I see you have planned this well."

Hakulo replied, "I will only need a few hours, you go collect your proof and break open their web of lies."

"Very well," Toran agreed, "The time has come to shine the light of truth upon these True Believers."


	33. Chapter 33

**Domus Discordia Chapter 33**

In the Primus-Apothecarion serf-medicaes cowered, hiding behind the tables and bubbling experiments. The cause of their distress was a crowd of armed Space Marines who had broken into the chamber with their weapons raised. Their armour was gouged and battered but that only made them seem more ferocious, their bolters held tightly and their eyes ever watchful. Into that scene strode Apothecary Memnos, tutting at the mess the warriors had caused. He shook his head and said, "Just try not to break anything. Now, where is a serf?"

A cowering man was dragged out from under a table by an armoured gauntlet and he pleaded, "Master, don't kill me!"

Memnos rolled his eyes, which were exposed to the open air without his helm and said, "I'm not here to kill you, I need you to take these to the cryo-vault."

The man looked at the collection of canopic jars and crude boxes held before him and spluttered, "I don't understand."

Memnos snarled, "Understanding is not required, only obedience. Time is of the essence; take this gene-seed to the cryo-vault… Now!"

The man grabbed the containers and scuttled away, thankful to be out of sight. Memnos sighed but he wasn't done yet. He heard the crump of armoured boots and knew Captain Toran and his Command squad has arrived. Toran took in the scene and said, "Area secured… so where is this proof?"

Memnos stepped up to a data-lectern, lighting the incense stick and activating the Hololithic projector as he muttered the Chant of Awakening. Yet when he tried to access the data-archive the Machine Spirit rejected his authority. Memnos spat, "Warp hells, they've locked out my access."

In response Toran simply said, "Persion, your skills are required."

Persion looked at the glowing projection and said, "Pah, this is weak encryption. I can break this easily."

"Do so," Toran commanded.

As Persion went to work Memnos heard the Initiates poking around and he tried not to snap at them not to touch anything. He spied Novak leaning into one of the Neophyte implantation chambers, taking in the cold sterile walls and freezing floor saying, "I always hated these cells."

Furion glanced over and commented, "We all did, but it was necessary. It was a trial we had to overcome in order to become strong, it made us harder and better for having gone through it."

Memnos ignored their remarks, emotions were not relevant in clinical matters. Then Persion stepped back saying, "I've got it."

"Is it convincing?" Toran asked.

"Irrefutable," Persion replied, "No one can doubt this."

"Good," Toran stated, "Then set it to broadcast on every vox-channel, I want every Astartes to see this in their helm displays. Regardless of what side they're on."

Persion complied but from the back of the room Novak was poking at a nondescript door saying, "What's this?"

Memnos' head snapped around and he barked, "Leave it, that's not for you!"

Toran's lone eye narrowed and he said, "What are you hiding?"

Memnos shook his head saying, "It's private, Lessall commanded that it is for Apothecary's eyes only."

Toran looked sceptical and he said, "Memnos, I am only now starting to trust you, this is not a good time to be keeping Lessall's secrets. Show us what is hidden there."

Memnos sighed but knew there was no avoiding this and said, "Give me a Haywire grenade." Puzzled Furion tossed one over and Memnos cautiously inched up to the door, he opened it a crack and tossed the grenade inside. There was a brief crackle of energy and then Memnos dove inside, hastily dispatching the gun-servitors he knew were lurking there. They fell limp and he called, "It's safe, come in."

Baffled the command squad filed in and Memnos led them into the hidden Apothecarion. They emerged in the chamber that housed the subjects, still strapped to the med-slabs where Memnos had last seen them. His eye checked their life-sign readings and he sighed in disappointment, nine of them were dead already, the tenth hardly looked any better.

Memnos heard the others come to a halt and the confusion evident in their voices as Toran asked, "What is this?"

Memnos replied proudly, "This is the visionary project, our secret labour. We are working to find a way to create the gene-flaw on command. To manufacture more visionaries."

Persion looked thoughtful and said, "We had a Brother once who had the flaw, he hated it. Daite would have gladly given it up if he could have."

Memnos was puzzled by that, he had never stopped to consider whether anybody wanted to have visions. Desire and emotions had been irrelevant to this work; he had shoved such considerations into his mental box.

Novak was staring wide-eyed at the specimens and asked, "What's wrong with them?"

Memnos answered candidly, "Altering the gene-seed is complex and hazardous, we suffer crippling losses. Pain thresholds are several orders of magnitude greater than conventional gene-seed implantation and we lose ninety-nine in a hundred subjects, it is most vexing."

Gasps arose and Toran hissed, "You are altering the sacred gene-seed?!"

Memnos was perplexed by that response and answered, "Yes, but we can't seem to get the modifications to stabilise."

Everybody was staring at Memnos with mouths agape but he didn't understand their reaction. They had all gone through the gene-forging, this shouldn't look unusual to them. Then there was a feeble gasp from the last specimen and weak eyes rolled open causing Novak to gasp, "Throne preserve us, one of the poor wretches is still alive!"

Memnos glanced at the life-signs readings and without thinking he automatically recited, "Subject VP-373-F. Early signs of respiratory failure, estimated remaining lifespan: twenty-three hours."

Suddenly Memnos was shoved aside as Furion barged past him. The giant warrior sank to one knee by the side of the Med-slab, his Mark III armour creaking from his kneeling position. Gently Furion reached out and took the subject's hand, utterly engulfing it in his armoured palm. Furion leaned in and peered into the weak eyes as he said, "Child, can you hear me? Look at me and focus, tell me your name."

Feebly the specimen stirred and whispered, "Erad... son of Erath."

Furion nodded and said, "Erad, how did you come to be here?"

The specimen whispered, "I was chosen, after the trials they said I was chosen... to be one of the Emperor's Angels."

Furion gasped, "You were an aspirant, you passed the trials to become a neophyte?"

Eyes glazed over and the subject said, "Pain, so much pain… It never ends"

"Erad stay with me," Furion barked, "Tell me when they took you."

But the subject wasn't listening and only gasped forlornly, "I've failed, I hear the Masters say it. They hate me, they hate us all for being weak."

Furion rebuked him firmly, "No Erad, we are proud of you, you have done so well. Hear me when I say that the Emperor is proud of you."

Slowly tear filled eyes turned to Furion and a whisper came, "When will the pain end?"

Furion reached out and took a pillow from the next med-slab as he said, "Hush Erad, son of Erath, sleep now and be at peace."

With those words Furion pressed the pillow firmly over the subject's face, holding it down with one giant hand. His gauntlet engulfed the entire head in a crushing grip and he pressed down firmly. There were a few moments of feeble struggle and then the body fell limp, as the life-signs cut-out . Furion leaned in and whispered, "Alas poor Erad, it is we who failed you. You deserved better than this, you deserved better masters than us."

Memnos checked the readings and said, "Specimen deceased, time of death..."

Unexpectedly Furion rose to his feet, he spun about and his armoured fist lashed out to smash Memnos straight in the face. The Apothecary felt his nose break and he staggered backwards but he didn't get very far. Two huge hands grabbed him by the gorget and heaved him upwards, lifting him bodily off the ground. Memnos was a Space Marine, in armour his weight would crush a grown man but Furion effortlessly held him off the ground in both hands and shook him like a rag doll. Furion's face was a storm of fury and grief as he bellowed, "You bastards! You complete and utter Frakking, whoreson bastards!"

Memnos was stunned and could only kick helplessly at air as he yelled, "What are you doing?!"

Furion was immovable as he shouted, "How could you do this?!"

Memnos clasped pathetically at Furion's arms and cried, "It was for the Chapter, we were trying to make improvements!"

"Improvement?!" Furion yelled furiously into his face, "Is that what you call this abomination? I thought our honour could be dragged no lower but you have plumbed depths of depravity I never imagined were possible."

Memnos was totally confused and spat, "What are you talking about, Neophytes die in the normal gene-implantation process every day. What does it matter?"

Furion pulled him close and growled, "All this time and you never understood. Neophytes fail the test every day, because they are not strong enough, because they are weak. Yet they all had a chance, the same chance we all did, to meet the challenge and overcome it if they are strong enough. But what chance did these boys have? You cut them open and poured poison into their veins, then timed how long it took them to die. It would have been kinder to slit their throats yourself."

Memnos struggled in his grip and gasped, "The specimens…"

Furion roared as he hurled Memnos to the ground. The Apothecary hit the floor in a clatter of plate but before he could recover a hand grabbed the back of his neck and forced his head right up close to the ashen corpse. Furion snarled, "They were not specimens! They were neophytes, chosen by the Chapter. His name was Erad, son of Erath, look at him damn you, look at all these children. They gave up their families and their mortal lives to be like us, they placed themselves into our custody thinking we would care for them. They were children, they trusted us to give them a proper chance and you repaid that faith with cruelty and malice!"

Memnos struggled to look round and cried, "Captain, you have to stop him!"

But Toran was still as a rock, gripping his sheathed sword's hilt tightly and his face was a mask of anger as he spat, "How many Memnos? How many children have you dragged into this torture chamber?"

The words spilled out of Memnos without conscious thought, "Approximately four thousand."

"Four thousand," Toran growled, "And it could have been any one of us, we all could have been strapped down here and experimented upon like these helpless victims."

Heatedly Persion snapped, "I've seen some sickening things, mostly by my own hand, but even I draw a line at poisoning children."

Novak spat in disgust, "Our honour is ashes, the Storm Herald's good name is mud."

Memnos pleaded from his prone position, "It was for the Chapter!"

Furion leaned in and growled, "If the Chapter approves of atrocities like this, then we don't deserve to survive. I would rather see this whole island blown to atoms than suffer such abominations to continue."

Memnos couldn't understand what he was hearing and cried, "But…"

"Enough," Toran barked, "I require you alive, your skills are too valuable to lose but I cannot look at your face. You would be wise to keep out of my sight from now on. Brothers, we leave this place, Lessall must be held to account for his crimes."

With that Furion tossed Memnos upon the med-slab and the Apothecary ended up face to face with the dead body of Erad. The boy's blank gaze bored into Memnos's soul and for the first time he properly looked at his subjects. The sight broke something within the Apothecary, that mental box which had held back his emotions for so long smashed open and let loose a torrent of suppressed doubts and misgivings. His eidetic memory recalled the face of every child he had experimented upon, every tear and cry for help that he had ignored. He saw it all with perfect clarity and the scope of what he had done filled Memnos with horror. He had known what he was doing was wrong all along but he had blocked it out to commit unspeakable crimes.

As the realisation filled Memnos' mind his hands clasped over his face in denial but could not hold back the words, "By the Throne, what have I done?!"


	34. Chapter 34

**Domus Discordia Chapter 34**

Upon the island home of the Storm Heralds the fighting paused, both sides amassing their forces for the next phase of the war. The True Believers had withdrawn their battered squads behind the interior defences surrounding the heart of the Fortress-Monastery. Here they dug in, adopting a siege mentality, they were bloodied but not dead and any foe who dared to brave their guns would find they were yet ready to fight. The Primarch's Own by comparison split up, moving around the island on various tasks, each subdivision making their own preparations for the coming fight.

Amid that confusion two warriors moved stealthily on an errand of their own. One was a fully-clad Astartes warrior, he was carrying two muslin sacks which were filled with melta-bombs and bore a Fractal-edged short sword. His name was Jediah and he was standing guard while his companion bent over an access panel. Jediah was stood before one of the primary heat-vents from the great plasma-reactors, a two-storey block of ferrocrete. He was scanning the area, doubting that the True Believers wouldn't patrol this area. His helm's autosenses were set to visual mode for thermal settings had been overwhelmed by the cascading heat shimmering off the vent. Jediah hadn't seen any foes so far but that did not encourage him to lower his guard, in his experience it was when things were starting to go well that the sky usually fell down upon their heads.

From behind he heard Nimodes snarl, "Wretched thing, how many bolts did they put on this damn panel?"

Jediah didn't take his eyes off his sweep but commented, "The Techmarines don't want anybody going in there."

Nimodes grunted and redoubled his efforts, but it didn't last long before he said, "Do you think this is a good idea?"

Jediah hadn't given it a moment's thought and stated, "Orders are orders."

Nimodes glanced backwards and said, "But to do this…"

Jediah cut him off saying, "The Captain's right, we can't let the True Believers win. They may think they are righteous but we know they are renegades, they can't be allowed to win, under any circumstances. We have to make sure that they don't spread this war to the stars, no matter what it takes."

Nimodes remarked, "After this war I don't think they will be much left of the Chapter."

"Don't worry about the future," Jediah rebuked, "Focus on your objective, besides if we succeed the results should be spectacular."

"Trust you to be looking forward to this," Nimdoes grumbled, "Sometimes I can't tell if you are a man or a monster. Are you even troubled that we're fighting fellow Storm Heralds?"

"No, I never liked any of them," Jediah answered frankly, "Now hurry up or the war will be over by the time we reach our goal."

Nimodes returned to his work and sure enough after a few minutes the panel came away. Jediah turned around and saw Nimodes already disappearing into the open aperture and he knelt to follow. It was a tight fit in his power armour and he had to squeeze one pauldron through the gap at a time to wiggle through. Once inside Jediah straightened up and found himself standing on a gridded catwalk, running around a pit that plunged into the ground.

Across that pit were laid a crossed pair of ferrocrete support beams, wide enough to drive a Rhino along. Suspended beneath those beams was a huge plasteel fan, swiftly rotating to blow hot air upwards. The noise of the mechanism was immense, a thunderous grinding clamour as it rumbled around made even worse by the fact that suspended beneath it was another fan and another and another. The noise and the heat were impressive, even to a warrior in power armour and his autosenses hastily dampened out the worst of the vibrations. Nimodes had no such protection and he winced as he shouted over the din, "This is our way in, there's just enough of a gap between the blades for a man to pass, if he times it absolutely perfectly that is."

One look was enough for Jediah to tell what would happen if they didn't time it perfectly. The blades weren't moving rapidly but there was an immense inevitability to their rotation, giving the impression that they would keep going no matter what. Jediah was no Techmarine but he'd be willing to venture his ceramite armour would crumple like tin foil, were he unlucky enough to be caught between one of those fan blades and anything else.

Jediah shouted over the din, "How many fans?"

"Ten," Nimodes yelled, "And take care at the bottom, the plasma exhausts will burn us to ash if we fall. We have to land on the maintenance walkway or we die."

Just for once Jediah wished Novak was here, he could really use a distracting quip about now but he gritted his teeth and said, "Well, what are we waiting for?"

Jediah put actions to his words, stepping out onto the beam and feeling the vibrations ringing through his boots. He inched out as the immense fan spun underneath him and looked down. Red light greeted him, the fires of hell far below, but he ignored it. He peered closely and made out another beam below him, glimpsed through the fan blades that slowly rotated before his eyes. He could tell there was just enough of a gap to jump through but it would be incredibly close. Jediah let his mind go blank, long experience telling him that his instincts were far better judges than any mental calculations he could make. He waited for a moment until the timing felt right and then he jumped.

There was a breathless moment where he passed through the gap and his life hung in the balance but then he was through and he landed perfectly on the beam. At the same instant Nimodes landed across the way and the pair nodded to each other. There was barely enough room to stand up and the wind buffeting him made Jediah sway but he overrode it with his gene-forged strength. One more he looked down and when the timing felt right he jumped again. Once more Jediah landed gracefully but as he did so there was a ringing clamour and a flurry of sparks erupted over his head.

Jediah's head snapped up and he saw to his surprise a party of warriors above them, a combat squad of five True Believers standing where they had been only a minute earlier. Jediah instantly dismissed questions of how or why they had arrived; combat was upon them any other thought was a distraction. He could see the True Believers were trying to shoot them down but the spinning blades made that impossible. The enemy realised this too and immediately slung their bolters, they drew their combat knives and leapt onto the beams, intending to give pursuit.

Jediah instantly saw they were outnumbered and outgunned, he knew they had to flee and turned his attention to the next drop. He saw a fan go past and then leapt onto the next beam. Nimodes followed, the wind ripping at his hair and together they leapt again. This time however Jediah paused and waited. Sure enough the True Believers had replicated his feat and given chase, quickly descending. Jediah saw a warrior dropping above him and in that instant his bolt pistol whipped out and he unloaded an entire clip into the gap of the spinning fan. The warrior's breastplate held for the first few shots but then gave way, blasting his hearts out in a spray of gore.

Jediah didn't stop to watch the results but dropped again and again, trying to keep ahead of their pursuers. He was moving fast but not fast enough, for a second after he landed he felt a weight slam into him and sharp pain as a knife rammed into his side. Jediah snarled and tried to bring his pistol to bear but a blunt chop knocked it from his grip and sent it flying into the depths below. The weight of his foe pinned Jediah down but he writhed like a snake. This warrior had no idea of the monster he was dealing with, a sharp blow from his elbow knocked the weight off Jediah and he rolled over. His foe recovered instantly and leapt again but Jediah got his boots up and caught him in the breastplate. Jediah heaved upwards and forced his opponent right into the path of a fan blade. The spinning plasteel caught the True Believer in the helm and neatly carved through it, leaving a headless corpse behind.

Jediah's side ached but he had no time to recover, he rolled off the beam and dropped again. The fan blade came within an inch of ending his life but he managed to get through and crashed into the beam below. As he did so he saw that Nimodes had his knife out and it was blooded, he crossed off another foe but wasted no more time before jumping again.

Only two more fan blades were left now and Jediah could see the fires below those, as well as a narrow metal catwalk around the rim of the pit. He gathered himself up and jumped once more, landing on the last beam with a clumsy jolt. He had only one more jump to go now and hastily prepared to jump. Yet just as he pushed out a weight caught him around the waist as a True Believer tackled him. A knife barely missed his neck as the pair fell uncontrollably, tumbling towards the fires below. Jediah's hands flashed out and just managed to latch onto the railing of the catwalk leaving him hanging there with his feet dangling over a pit of fire. The True Believer had come with him and was clinging into his waist, dragging him down with his weight. Jediah struggled but could not shift their combined weight, not with his injured side and he felt the metal of the rail start to bend in his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nimodes had made it to the catwalk but was busy shooting down the last enemy, he would find no help there. Jediah fixed his attention on his own peril and tried to shake off the foe but the warrior clung on like a limpet and yelled, "I die but I'm taking you with me!" With nothing left to lose Jediah let go one hand and reached for his belt, drawing his Fractal-edged short sword. He cried, "Go to hell!" then he stabbed down and severed one of his foe's arms.

The warrior yelled in denial but could do nothing but roar in denial as he slipped away, tumbling into the raging fires below which swallowed him without a trace. Jediah grimaced but with the weight gone he was able to heave himself over the rail to collapse upon the catwalk. Nimodes came running over and saw the blood gushing from the knife wound in his side but Jediah waved him off. He pulled the blade out and let it drop then woozily stood up, his Larraman cells already clotting over the wound.

Nimodes had to yell over the noise, "That was too close."

"Any fight you can walk away from, is a good fight," Jediah hollered.

Nimodes turned towards the inviting dark of a tunnel, that no doubt led to the primary Plasma-reactors. Yet before either of them could take a step there was a rumble and an armoured door on the other side of the pit ground open to reveal the worst possible sight: five more True Believers moving to intercept them.

Jediah instantly shoved Nimodes towards the tunnel shouting, "Go, I'll hold them off."

"Are you crazy?!" Nimodes hollered, "There are five of them and you are wounded!"

Jediah hurriedly grabbed his sacks of melta bombs and shoved them into Nimodes' arms yelling, "No time to argue, you have to complete the mission!"

Nimodes glanced back into the dark of the tunnel but paused for an instant saying, "Here take my combat knife, you'll need it."

Jediah grabbed the proffered blade, holding it alongside his Fractal-edged short sword as he barked, "Stop talking, run!"

Nimodes turned on his heel and dashed away, disappearing into the dark. Jediah spun back and saw the True Believers were only seconds away, fresh, armed and outnumbering him five to one; the odds of his survival were hysterically low. Jediah gripped his twin blades tightly and his lips drew back over his teeth as he hissed to himself, "Come on and meet the monster. I am going to enjoy this."


	35. Chapter 35

**Domus Discordia Chapter 35**

Outside the grand council chamber a crowd was gathered, a gaggle of Astartes all jostling before the massively reinforced doors. They were all True Believers but not regular line warriors, those had to stay at their posts guarding the perimeter, these were the senior leaders of their cause. There were half a dozen black-clad Chaplains along with a dozen Apothecaries and even the blue blots of Captain's Tygra and Erathor. All of them were talking at once, shouting over each other, "Can it be true?" or "Did you know about this?" or "It must be a lie," or most common of all, "Where are Lessall and Samect?!"

Towards that gathering Reclusiarch Wrethan strode, gripping his Crozius furiously. He heard the warriors as they shouted angrily at each other and he shared their outrage. Wrethan had led the withdrawal from the last fight, practically dragging his leaders back to a defensible position. Lessall and Samect had immediately closeted themselves away in the grand council chamber, leaving the Reclusiarch to organise a proper defence. A task made much easier by the unexpected restoration of the vox-net.

Wrethan had tried not to think ill of his masters but he had felt the distinct impression that they were stunned by the defeat, shocked by the turning of Eighth Company and abandoning their duties. Then completely out of the blue had come a message packet, conveyed over the vox-net from somewhere outside the perimeter. Wrethan had been suspicious but his armour's Machine Spirit had opened the message without prompting and played the contents before his incredulous eyes. What Wrethan had seen had at first confused him, then horrified and finally left him with an incandescent rage. He had immediately set off to confront his masters only to find that many others had arrived before him. Wrethan strode up to the jostling mob and yelled, "What is going on here?!"

Many turned at his cry but they swiftly fell back before him, recognising his elevated rank. Only two stepped up to answer him, Tygra and Erathor. Each of them looked battered and worn, their armour chipped and scored from battle. Erathor's Lightning claws were sheathed but still flecked with blood and Tygra's Eviscerator was battered and missing several teeth.

Erathor spoke first saying, "You saw the message?"

Wrethan snarled, "We all did, every True Believer saw it."

Tygra shook his head saying, "It must be a trick, a vile fabrication to undermine us."

"No," Erathor spat, "This rings all too true."

Wrethan looked about and said, "Lessall and Samect can tell us. Where are they?"

"Hiding behind those doors," Tygra spat, "They won't see us."

"They will see me," Wrethan growled. With that Wrethan strode past them and the Captain followed on. They marched up to the doors where a pair of True Believers stood guard, holding their bolters uncertainly. They saw Wrethan closing but one held up a hand saying, "We are to allow no one in."

Wrethan marched up to the defiant warrior and snarled, "You know who I am, you have known me all your lives. I saw each of you raised up into this Chapter and watched over you as you chanted the litanies for the first time. I have slain Heretics and Xenos beyond counting; I have felt the touch of Phospex and lived to tell the tale. I have faced down Greater Daemons and walked outside of time and space. Who are you to oppose me, you will step aside or be the next to face my wrath."

Prudently the pair of guards stepped aside and let the Reclusiarch pass. The great doors slid open a fraction to let the trio pass and Tygra muttered, "Nicely done."

Wrethan commented, "It's all in the tone of voice, implying there is no possibility of them opposing your will."

Together the three marched into the long nave, passing along its length. Ahead of them they spied Lessall and Samect, sitting in the chairs of the masters, the Chief Apothecary taking the Chapter Master's seat. The pair had their helms off and seemed to be in discourse but they hastily shut up as they spied the intrusion. They waited until the trio were close enough and then Lessall growled, "I thought I left instructions not to be disturbed."

Wrethan sneered, "You presume much, your troops don't see you as any sort of master, for your leadership is sorely lacking."

Samect barked, "You dare speak to us thusly!"

But Erathor shouted, "Who are you to be giving orders?! You are a Chaplain and an Apothecary, we are Captains. You should be following one of us, not the other way around."

"Jossat thought the same and he got himself killed," Lessall sneered, "Where would you be without us? Still bowing and scraping to that fool Gorgall."

The mention of the dead Chapter Master stoked Wrethan's anger and he snarled, "Don't you dare mention that name, you who killed him!"

Lessall blinked and said, "I don't…"

"Don't try to deny it," Erathor spat, "I recognised your voice in the recordings. It's true isn't it; you conspired with the Inquisition to have Gorgall murdered."

Lessall sat still for a long moment and then spread his hands and said, "Very well… yes its true. So what?"

"So what," Tygra gasped, "You commit shameful acts of dishonour and you dare to sit there saying: So what?!"

Samect leaned in and remarked, "Honour, from you Tygra? Since when have you cared for honour?"

Wrethan fixed his master with a fierce glare and said, "You knew of this?"

Samect cocked his head and replied, "Of course I did, we planned it together. Gorgall was a stubborn fool and just wouldn't die. You all wanted him gone; don't pretend you didn't. Only we had the courage and selfless nobility to act."

Angrily Wrethan growled, "You have the audacity to speak of noble courage. You plotted murder and sedition, you framed an innocent Captain for your own crimes, plunging us into civil war and you have the gall to sit there and speak of nobility! It is not our enemies who are dishonoured it is we! You disgraced us all and then tricked us to fight for a tainted cause!"

Lessall shook his head and said, "You all seem very irate over this."

"I killed Maxitio!" Erathor roared in anger, his claws sliding out, "My friend and the most honourable man I ever met. I cut out his hearts because he stood against what was right but now you tell me it was all a lie. You had me disgrace my honour and laughed about it behind my back. I should take these claws and ram them into your hearts."

Lessall spread his arms wide, exposing his chest and said, "So cut me down and then what, do you think the fighting will stop? Will our lost kin welcome you back with open arms or will they instantly put a bolt-round into your head? This war has already gone too far to stop, we are committed to our course and you know there is no turning back."

Erathor froze and Wrethan did not know what the Captain would do. Would he strike down the Chief Apothecary or baulk at the deed? It was a struggle Wrethan knew all too well, for he shared it. Wrethan had blood on his hands, he had slain any who had dared to stand up for what was right. He had unjustly executed his sworn Brothers and cast aside all pretensions of honour, there was no redemption from that. Deep down Wrethan knew this war was now unstoppable, both sides had shed blood and they must fight on to the last.

Slowly Erathor's claws retracted as he growled, "Damn you, the Emperor will damn us all for this."

Lessall scoffed, "Perhaps or perhaps not, history is written by the victor after all. Once we win this war we will be in a position to decide what is honourable and what is not. Once we have built our Empire nobody will question how we did it, the end will justify the means."

Wrethan growled, "You don't care about humanity, you never did. You only lust to claim your own kingdom and to enthrone yourself as the Tyrant of the Saint Karyl Trail."

Lessall glared at him and spat, "Are we going to remain here arguing all day or get on with winning this war?"

Wrethan fell silent but Tygra spoke up to say, "How are we supposed to win now?"

Erathor agreed saying, "Our ranks are shattered and Hakulo has betrayed us. Counting the Chaplains and Apothecaries we number a mere one hundred and seven-seven Space Marines."

Lessall snarled, "Hakulo's treachery runs deeper than you know. Our specialists uncovered that his Marines have been sabotaging the vox-net this whole time. The underhanded knave has been working for the other side since the start!"

Wrethan's thoughts turned to the prisoners he had seen Hakulo's squads dragging away but something held his tongue. Instead he said, "What is your plan?"

"We have suffered a serious setback but the situation is not irrecoverable," Samect stated coolly, "We control the interior defences, we control the landing docks and vox-arrays, the Thunderhawk hangers and the armouries, everything of note is under our thumb. Our enemies have nothing, no support, no resupply, the longer this goes on the more they will wither upon the vine."

Tygra seemed to be adapting fastest to the situation and remarked, "They can't lurk out there forever, will have no choice other than to brave our guns and in a siege we hold the advantage. They will impale themselves on the defences and then we crush them."

Erathor reluctantly pointed out, "There are other ways into the heart of the Fortress-Monastery, they may try to be sneaky and avoid our guns."

Samect replied candidly, "Tunnel fighting and close-quarters brawling. The Codex Astartes states that in a siege the attacker should enjoy a three-to-one superiority in numbers, which they don't have. If Toran wants a battle of attrition then we shall give it to him and we shall still win."

Wrethan didn't like any of what he was hearing but he knew he had no choice but to help. No, he thought, there had been a choice once, but that moment was long past. He was committed to this course and he had no other option save to follow it. He swallowed his misgivings and said, "There is a flaw in your plan. Morale is at rock bottom, every True Believer knows what you have done, they are angry and liable to riot. If we sit here and do nothing then we may well have a civil war in our own camp."

Lessall didn't look concerned as he said, "That is your duty, you three need to go get the troops in order. Also we will fold the survivors of Fourth Company into your ranks, better to have two nearly whole Companies than three shattered bands."

Tygra looked thoughtful and asked, "What if the enemy doesn't dance to your tune? What if they stay out of range and rampage freely?"

Lessall replied, "Then they will grow weaker and weaker, exhausting their supplies and ammunition. They will waste their strength pointlessly and when they are spent we advance en-masse to crush them."

Samect nodded and said, "It might be better that way, to shed blood together will unite the True Believers once more. A taste of battle will plaster over the cracks in our morale, reforging the bonds that make us strong."

Nobody looked pleased but Tygra said, "Very well."

Erathor reluctantly murmured, "If it must be so."

Wrethan could only nod in agreement; he had no other choices left to him.

Then Lessall commanded, "Go and get your ranks back into order, soon we will win this war!"

Silently the trio turned and marched out each lost in their own thoughts. Wrethan's head was swimming, replaying all that he had done. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare and could not wake up. Everything he had fought for was a lie and all he had held to be righteous was now ashes. He had burned down everything that he held dear and had blood upon his hands. There was no going back from that, no way to change his fate. Deep down Wrethan was struggling with a realisation: that strange voice that had cried against his deeds, he had recognised it at last. It was a voice he had not heard in centuries, one he thought had been excised during his training and Hypno-indoctrination. One that he thought he would never hear again.

It was his conscience.


	36. Chapter 36

**Domus Discordia Chapter 36**

Deep underground the transit hub bustled with activity, various Space Marines going about their business as they prepared for war. The Primarch's Own had selected their former position as a rallying point and now were gathering together once more. They were battered and grubby, their armour marked with damage but their eyes had lost none of their zeal and they were eager for the fray.

In a corner Captain Toran and Sergeant Furion were bent over a crate, examining a map of the Fortress-Monastery that someone had scrounged. They were plotting out various scenarios and discussing the looming battle. With them were Terminator Sergeant Orath, who seemed impatient to begin the fighting and the lone Honour Guard. Toran knew his name now but respected his order's traditions and did not use it; doctrine held that they should be nameless guardians of the Storm Herald's principles.

Slightly off to the side Apothecary Memnos was stood silently, his head held low. He looked like he wished the ground would open up and swallow him, which as far as Toran was concerned would be too gentle a chastisement for his crimes. Toran knew Memnos' skills were too valuable to lose but as far as he was concerned if the Apothecary never said another word then that was fine. Toran's thoughts were interrupted as a voice came from behind him, "Brother-Captain, you asked to see me?"

Toran turned to see a Sergeant standing there with his helm off, it was Cyvo the subordinate to the late Captain Maxitio. Toran looked the warrior up and down and was satisfied by the strength and determination he beheld. Toran drew in a breath and stated, "Yes Sergeant, I did. We are about to plan our strategy and I require somebody to speak for the warriors of Seventh Company."

Cyvo looked doubtful and said, "I'm only a Sergeant."

Toran tutted, "Don't sell yourself short, you have a fine mind and fire in your soul. I would welcome your input."

Cyvo hesitantly said, "We… assumed Seventh Company would be folded into your command."

Toran knew how hard that would be, to lose a commander was hard on any unit, but to be promptly dissolved would shred their morale. More than ever he needed the Marines to be proud and zealous, not doubting themselves. Trying to sound confident Toran declared, "Captain Maxitio gave everything he had for his Company and we will not besmirch his sacrifice. He would have wanted one of his own to succeed him. We are all confident that the Seventh shall excel under your leadership."

Cyvo looked reassured and said, "We won't let you down."

Toran would have said more but then he saw Captain Hakulo approaching. Before Toran could greet him Hakulo called, "I've been looking for you and I have forty-one more veterans for the cause!"

Toran accepted the gruff welcome and called, "Excellent, their strength will be needed. Care to join us to plan our next move?"

Hakulo eagerly joined the party around the crate but as he did so the Honour Guard inquired, "Did you rescue any survivors of my order?"

Hakulo's face fell momentarily and he sadly shook his head. An awkward silence fell as everybody realised the order of Honour Guards was all but extinct. This lone warrior was all that remained, yet so long as one of them still stood he would continue to embody the ideals he was sworn to protect. In time the order of Honour Guards may well rise again, but the Primarch's Own would have to win first.

Toran directed everyone's attention to the map, of course as the commander Toran could just issue orders but he had always found it better to include his troops in strategy sessions. It promoted unit cohesion and morale to make warriors feel that their concerns were being addressed and their ideas considered. All Astartes would fight regardless but they would fight all the harder for a commander who genuinely cared about them. Toran began by saying, "Here is the situation, we have dealt a serious blow to the True Believers but a significant number of them escaped our wrath and fell back to their bastion at the heart of the Fortress-Monastery. This is an eminent threat, they have the interior defence guns and the all the armoury supplies. If they bunker down, digging them out will be next to impossible."

Thoughtful silence greeted that as everybody mused over the problem and then Furion spoke up to say, "Those guns were added after the last invasion, to secure the heart of the island, they could hold off an army. There are no safe approaches; any assault will pay in blood for every metre."

Hakulo didn't look concerned as he said, "I will pay any cost to end this war, no price is too high to claim vengeance."

Sergeant Cyvo seemed to have got over his reluctance and stated, "If we charge through those cross-fires there won't be enough of us left to claim vengeance. Warp Hells, there won't be anything left of the Chapter at all."

Hakulo snarled, "I did say any price."

Toran agreed with Cyvo, he'd already led his Marines into one bloodbath and had no wish to repeat his error, so diplomatically he said, "We will not baulk at the cost, but let us consider that the last resort. What other options do we have?"

Cyvo stated, "The guns only cover surface approaches, there are numerous underground passages."

Orath spoke up eagerly to say, "Tunnel fighting, that is perfect. Let my Terminators take the vanguard and nothing will halt our advance."

Furion however looked doubtful and said, "They will be expecting that, we have to assume that they will have laid traps and prepared defences."

Orath merely grinned and said, "You've never seen Terminators in tight confines, we were made for this kind of meat-grinder."

Cyvo remarked, "They can't possibly have the numbers to defend every approach, maybe we can find a weak spot."

Furion shook his head saying, "Never rely upon the incompetence of the foe. Were the positions reversed then I would have already collapsed any tunnel that couldn't be held and set up the rest to fall upon an attacker's head."

Hakulo agreed, "I don't like tunnels, give me open skies and a roaring jump pack any day."

Toran was about to wade in but at that moment the Honour Guard interjected, "You are all being limited in your thinking. We have other assets to call upon, ones that have yet to become involved."

"You mean the Librarians?" Furion asked, "They are sitting this one out."

"Good riddance," Hakulo spat, "We don't want their kind."

Cyvo agreed, "Better to leave the Warp out of this, getting them involved would be like throwing Promethium onto a bonfire."

Even Toran shuddered at the thought. No one knew what side the Librarians would take, at best it was fifty-fifty odds they would support the Primarch's Own and worse than that was the idea that they would be as split as the rest of the Chapter. If the Librarians fell into civil war the immaterial fall-out would be catastrophic, making the carnage so far look like a small skirmish. Forget destroying the island, if they inadvertently opened up a warp rift then humanity could lose this whole planet, if not the sector.

However the Honour Guard stated, "Actually I was thinking about the Chapter's fleet assets in orbit, they have played no part in this. We have Brothers up there whom may not even be aware of what is happening down here."

That gave everybody pause and they thought about it for a moment, then Furion said, "How would they get here? The True Believers control the anti-air defences, any gunship or drop-pod would be swatted out of the sky."

Cyvo reluctantly muttered, "Teleportation?"

"With the True Believer's finger on the Void-shields that is not an option," Orath spat.

Toran thought about it and decided, "We shall send up a vox-signal, at the bare minimum we can use their Astropaths to recall Captain Phalros and Ninth Company."

"That's going take too long," Hakulo rebuked, "By the time he gets back, this war will be over. Either we win or they slaughter us or the True Believers tear themselves apart."

"So we're back to tunnel fighting," Orath remarked sounding rather eager.

"Bloody work," Furion sighed and Toran silently agreed, the battle in the training park had been too costly and he was determined to avoid any repeat of it.

"Could we tip the odds?" Hakulo wondered, "If Eighth Company launches a feint on the surface we could draw away some enemy squads, weaken the defence below for your advance."

Furion sounded wary as he objected, "You will get slaughtered."

"We are willing to pay the price," Hakulo stated grimly.

Yet Toran wasn't listening, something he had heard earlier had stuck in his mind and he suddenly interjected, "Wait… we are missing something. Hakulo, you said the True Believers will tear themselves apart. What did you mean?"

Uncertainly Hakulo explained, "Lessall is their leader but the Captains were never happy about it, they were jostling for power from the start. Now that the truth of his crimes is out… well if I were Lessall I would be watching my back for knives in the dark."

"That's it!" Toran cried elatedly, drawing confused stares, "The True Believers are struggling against time. Lessall must know his forces are fracturing, he built his house upon quicksand and now it collapses around his ears. He needs a battle; he needs a swift victory, before his own Marines turn on him. He must be desperate to engage us, so if we can draw him out then we will hold the advantage."

Cyvo looked confused and said, "Lessall is no fool, he will not move out from behind those guns unless he is certain of victory."

Toran replied, "Which is why we must feign weakness, make ourselves appear broken and ready to fall. Lessall won't be able to resist an easy win, he can't afford to."

Hakulo didn't look convinced and said, "I don't like sneaking about, we should strike at them directly."

However the Honour Guard argued, "Do not forget the wisdom of the Primarch, when he penned Codex Vol I, Chapter XVIII, Verse III."

Hakulo replied by rote, "Never let your opponent dictate the conditions of an engagement. Never meet an enemy upon his chosen ground."

Toran nodded and said, "Exactly, so far we've been letting Lessall pick and choose his battles. We can't keep dancing to his tune; we need to do something unexpected. Sergeant Cyvo, I want you to take half of our forces and move underground to a rendezvous point, keep out of sight and away from Auspexs. I am relying on you not to let the True Believers see so much as a glint of light off your armour."

Cyvo swelled at the unexpected trust and honour accorded to him and proudly said, "You can count on me."

Toran accepted this and said, "Hakulo, Orath you're with me. The True Believers will grow suspicious if you are absent. We will take the rest of our forces to the rendezvous by a circuitous route and let them see our feeble might. We will appear weak and exhausted, ready to be crushed. Only when it is too late will they realise our true strength."

"And where shall we lay this trap?" Hakulo asked warily.

Toran laid a finger on the map and proclaimed, "Right here."

Everybody peered at where he was pointing and then blinked in surprise. Hesitantly Cyvo said, "I am unfamiliar with your command style, but are you perhaps making a jest?"

Orath agreed, "That's a risky place to make a stand."

Even Furion asked, "Captain, are you trying to re-live your glory days?"

Toran smiled and replied, "Exactly the responses I expect the True Believers to make, they have to underestimate us or they will never leave the shelter of their defences. I want them to think us desperate and overwrought. I want them to think I am out of ideas, falling back on old stratagems and making risky moves."

"It's certainly that," Orath muttered.

Nobody appeared pleased but all knew Toran had made a decision and they would obey. The Captain however was confident that the True Believers would be unable to resist the bait he was going to lay before them and would attack. Toran looked at the heroes around him and proclaimed, "This is where we shall make our stand. This war shall be decided before the doors to the Forges, at the heart of the Grand Processional."


	37. Chapter 37

**Domus Discordia Chapter 37**

The grand processional was a place where history had been decided. Here the armoured might of the Storm Heralds was dispatched, here ancient sciences were unshackled and set loose to bring woe to the enemies of man. It was also here that the Storm Heralds had fought the pivotal battle of the last invasion. The concourse was wide enough for six Land Raiders to pass and tall enough to fit a warhound Titan. The walls were lined with thick columns, covered in binaric formulas, while overhead skulls and cyber cherubs flew chanting praises to the Omnissiah. At one end was a pair of immense Adamantium doors, marked with a huge skull and cog icon, denoting that beyond lay the dominions of the Techmarines.

Reclusiarch Wrethan gazed from afar, surveying all with ruthless precision. He was stood with the True Believers, well back from the doors and out of heavy weapon range. They were ready for war, determined to put an end to this fighting once and for all. Victory was within their grasp and they were eager to claim it. Wrethan peered down the length of the grand processional and saw history repeating itself. Before the doors were a ragged band of defenders lurking behind rude barricades, a bloodied and battered force clinging to the last vestiges of hope. Wrethan looked upon the resistors and could not help but reflect on the parallels.

The last time a battle had been fought here he had been laid up in an Apothecarion, recovering from grievous wounds. He had been unable to fight and been forced to watch from afar as his Brothers fought and died to save his Chapter. The single most important battle the Fortress-Monastery had ever seen and he had missed it, which had been his life's greatest regret until now.

Wrethan could not stop himself looking at this tattered group of defenders, outnumbered and outgunned but determined to fight and die for what was righteous and just. How he yearned to be counted amongst them, to be standing on the other side of that barricade. Wrethan heard a snort of derision and he glanced over to where High Chaplain Samect was standing. His master was sneering under his skull-helm as he growled, "Pathetic."

Wrethan felt sullied to be standing with one who had plotted dishonourable murder, but he could do nothing about it. Instead he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Look at them," Samect disdainfully spat, "Weak and broken, the battle in the training park must have cost them far more than we ever realised. They are spent, exhausted and ready to fall."

From the other side of Wrethan, Captain Tygra commented, "They must be desperate to think they will find succour here of all places."

Beyond him Erathor agreed, "Toran has at last run out of ideas, he has no more innovations left. He is running back to the safety of old stratagems, it will avail him not."

Wrethan wasn't so sure of that and cautioned, "Do not underestimate them; they will fight to the last. They will not fall without claiming a heavy toll in blood."

Samect snorted, "It does not matter, they shall all die here, this war end today."

"So what are we waiting for?" Tygra spat.

"Yes," Erathor agreed, "Where is Lessall?"

Wrethan shared his puzzlement. The True Believers had seen their foes fleeing here, a pathetically small group of survivors, unable to offer any real resistance. The chance to crush them had been too good to pass up and the True Believers had eagerly pursued them. Better that then sitting behind their guns hurling accusations at each other. It was fortunate in a way, morale had been abysmal after the recent revelations and the prospect of battle let the Marines forget that they were in service to a conniving murderer. They were eager to taste blood and wash away their cares, but for some reason Lessall had yet to arrive.

Samect slowly explained, "The Chief Apothecary had to divert to the Librarian's tower, Echeb wanted to see him, most urgently."

Everybody paused and Wrethan ventured, "The Librarians move at last, are they joining us?"

"No," Samect replied, "They said they had an urgent message, something so monumental they couldn't send it over the vox. Lessall went to receive it in person and to make sure the Librarians remain neutral."

"A message?" Tygra asked, "What could possibly be so important as to distract Lessall right now?"

"I do not know," Samect answered, "But it can hardly matter anymore. Whatever it is Lessall will deal with it and then join us. Besides these dregs aren't going anywhere, we can wait. Now we must prepare, I shall address the ranks and stir their hearts for battle."

With that Samect strode off, marching up and down the waiting lines of True Believers. Wrethan watched him go, feeling his ire simmering. The High Chaplain had committed egregious sins; he had cast aside honour and yet still marched about as if he were somehow righteous. Wrethan's mouth pulled into a sneer and he growled, "Smug cur, he has dragged our honour through the mud, he disgraces us all."

Tygra glanced over and ventured, "Maybe… we should do something about him and Lessall too."

Wrethan started in surprise and hissed, "What do you mean?"

Erathor leaned in and quietly muttered, "Those two have shamed us all, their continued presence stains everything with their devious taint. We cannot bear it."

Wrethan understood all too well what they meant and had absolutely no problem with the idea. He grimly stated, "Removing those two would go a long way to restoring our dignity."

"Not too hasty," Erathor urged, "We are committed to this course now and regrettably still need Lessall. He and Samect will build our empire for us, but their reign may prove short indeed."

Wrethan narrowed his eyes and said, "You mean to let them achieve their goal and then take the prize from them."

Tygra nodded and explained, "We will let them have their war and build their empire. When it is done we remove them and establish our own rule, a worthy and just one. History will lay all the blame on them and leave us the noble heroes who delivered justice."

Wrethan thought this over and said, "And where do I fit in?"

Erathor stated, "Our Empire will need a new High Chaplain, one who can remind us of what honour is."

That thought warmed Wrethan's hearts and he admitted, "It would be good to wash our hands of their stench."

Erathor looked pleased but right then a stir went up in the ranks as someone approached. Wrethan glanced over and saw the sight of Lessall approaching. The lord of the True Believers and architect of all that had transpired. Wrethan found he held no admiration or respect for this leader, Lessall commanded no loyalty and garnered no trust from those he ruled. For now there was no choice other than to follow him but Wrethan decided then Erathor was right, Lessall's reign could not be short enough.

Lessall walked up to them, a strange look upon his face and his eyes very far away. As he closed Samect called out, "Chief Apothecary, all is in readiness, we are prepared to strike!"

Lessall slowed to a stop and said, "Yes… we need to be ready."

Wrethan was perplexed by the non-sequitur and called, "Do you want to inspect the ranks first?"

"No," Lessall said half-heartedly, "No, not right now."

Everybody was baffled by that and Erathor asked, "Is something wrong?"

Lessall seemed to have his mind elsewhere and murmured, "It is an age of miracles but how could we have ever expected this. What will we do when he turns his eyes upon what we have done here? How will we explain it all?"

Samect stepped forward and inquired, "Did you see Echeb? Was there important news?"

Lessall's eyes snapped to the here and now and he shook off his distracted air. He looked at them and said, "No, nothing important. We have to finish this war fast, speed is everything now. Speed and strength."

"We are ready to move at your command," Erathor stated, "Shall we attack?"

"No," Lessall countermanded, "Pull the line back out until we stand outside of heavy weapon range."

"Do what?" Tygra asked.

"Pull them back to create a clear middle," Lessall said, "I want to parlay."

"Parlay," Samect said in confusion, "Why?"

"Don't question me," Lessall spat angrily, "Just do what I tell you."

Everybody was confused but they obeyed and the line pulled back. Soon there was a clear ground, where neither side could effectively shoot, leaving the leaders standing alone. Lessall sent a coded burst over the vox, a Chapter signal for parlay, one barely ever used it should be noted. Wrethan wasn't sure that Toran would respond but after a few minutes a handful of Marines emerged and made their way into the neutral ground.

Wrethan's eyes surveyed the closing warriors and his hearts leapt to see Toran at the fore. The Reclusiarch was elated to see the Third Captain still lived, though his armour looked wrecked. With him came the less welcome sight of Furion along with a Terminator, an Honour Guard and last of all the mercurial personage of Captain Hakulo.

The group stopped just outside of bolter range and Toran called over clearly, "That's close enough, what do you want?"

Lessall took a half-step forward and called, "No need for caution, I offer guarantees for your safety until this parlay is concluded."

The Terminator scoffed, "You think we will trust a single word you say?"

Hakulo agreed, "You would be well advised to keep out of range of my spear, you have no idea how often I thought about ramming it into your hearts. Actually, in hindsight it is a shame I didn't do it when I had the chance."

Lessall brushed off the remark and said, "You have fought bravely and well, but your fight is over. You know death looms, but I offer you one last chance to convert. To join your strength to ours."

Wrethan was stunned by that but it was Furion who jeered, "Join you, serve under a murderer, a liar and betrayer? We spit upon your offer!"

Lessall sounded fraught as he exclaimed, "There are forces at play you don't understand, ancient powers have awoken that will crush our Chapter utterly. We need to be united to survive; we must be as strong as possible when he comes."

Toran's voice was harsh and unforgiving as he called, "The only thing we have to offer you is a bolt-round between the eyes."

Wrethan expected no less from Toran but Lessall urged, "Do not be foolish, you are about to die. You are outnumbered and your defence will not hold against us. Your strength will be wasted and we will be left weaker against what is to come."

Toran proudly declared, "If we are to die then we will die for the principles we are sworn to uphold, the ideals of the Storm Heralds. We will gladly give our lives for the nobility and Brotherhood that you have cast aside."

Wrethan couldn't have been prouder of Toran but Lessall merely sighed, "There is no convincing you. Very well, this parlay is over. You die as soon as we return to our line."

However Wrethan blurted out, "Wait… tell me one thing, I have to know. How long were you set against us? When did Gorgall recruit you?"

Toran snorted and said, "For the sake of our former Brotherhood, I will tell you. Furion here recruited me on my very first mission."

Wrethan's spirits sank, all his efforts, all his grooming of Toran had been for nought. He had never had been close to converting Toran, all those years had been pointless. Yet he did not regret that time, he could not after all he had seen and done.

Furiously Lessall snarled, "Come on," and turned away donning his helm. Wrethan had choice other than to follow, there were no alternatives for him. As he trudged away Wrethan wished with all his hearts that there was a way to avoid the looming slaughter but the course was set and he could not change it. Deep within he could not avoid the unpalatable truth that he yearned to be on the other side. He yearned to die being proud of himself, instead of being ashamed.


	38. Chapter 38

**Domus Discordia Chapter 38**

All along the barricade the Primarch's Own waited, gripping their bolters and heavy weapons tightly. Missiles were loaded, lascanons charged, Melta's primed and Plasma flasks stoked with incandescent fury. They were waiting for the parlay to conclude and the battle to begin, a moment they did not have to wait long for. From the length of the Grand Processional Captain Toran and his party hurried, they almost ran back to the line and dove behind the barricade. Standing patiently on the line Persion tutted and inquired, "Didn't go well then?"

Toran snorted, "Of course not."

Novak gripping his power sword in one hand and his combat shield in the other as he asked, "Did they buy it?"

Furion replied, "They took the bait, they think us weak and broken. They can't resist the prospect of an easy victory."

Toran looked up and down the line, taking in the carefully arranged barricades and widely dispersed Marines and scout-novices. It was all a carefully crafted illusion, one designed to make them appear fractured and feeble. Yet those defences were only half the tale, not too far away the rest of the Primarch's Own lurked, meticulously hidden and waiting for the foe to engage, before they closed the trap upon them. Toran knew it had been a risky move, if the True Believers had detected the trap then all could have been lost. Yet the foe numbered no scouts among them and was overconfident, they had not had so much as a whiff of the trap.

Toran took his place on the line saying, "Make ready, they will come right up the middle and try to smash us in one hammer blow."

"That's what happens when you let an Apothecary make your battle plans," Persion muttered, "Offence very much intended."

Slightly further along the line Apothecary Memnos said nothing, hiding his face behind his blank helm. Memnos still appeared to be wallowing in his shame, which Toran thought he thoroughly deserved. The disgrace of the Apothecary order was beyond words, an infamy that would never be expunged. They would have to deal with it later though, for now battle loomed.

Captain Hakulo had taken up a position with his Eighth Company assault Marines and called over, "Is the flanking force ready?"

Toran answered him, "Ready, willing and able, Sergeant Cyvo will lead the counter-attack. We will catch the True Believers in a vice and grind them to paste."

Hakulo didn't sound reassured as he commented, "Maybe I should have taken them in hand."

Toran demurred, "No, the enemy expects to see you, they would have grown suspicious were you absent. Besides I've seen Cyvo at work, he's extremely competent."

Hakulo still growled, "You're still putting a lot of trust in someone rather junior."

"Which means he has everything to prove," Toran replied, "Trust in Cyvo, he will not fail us."

The line settled back and waited while Toran looked over his Marines. They were ready and eager, thirsting to meet the foe and end this war. Behind them the great doors of the Forges loomed, a vast edifice marked with the skull and cog icon of the Omnissiah, the representation of the Emperor as patron of knowledge and technology. Toran did not embrace Emperor-worship, that was the foe's banner, but he dared to wonder if the Emperor would look upon their deeds here and be pleased. Could the Primarch's Own undo the disgrace of the True Believers? Could they ever restore the honour of the Storm Heralds, or would they be forever marked by this scandal?

Toran's musings were interrupted as he heard the True Believers stirring, amassing for one mighty charge. Toran saw the distant figures of Erathor, Tygra and Wrethan, their reasons and motivations were irrelevant now, they had fallen and would be shown no mercy. Yet at the fore were the figures of Lessall and Samect, the well-spring of this travesty and the most deserving of punishment. Toran would gladly cut them down without a qualm.

Samect was pacing up and down and from afar Toran's enhanced hearing heard him cry, "We are the Emperor's Storm!"

As one the True Believers cried, "We are His wrath!" then leapt into motion.

As they closed Toran gritted his teeth, the enemy had even stolen the Chapter's war-cry. It felt so wrong to be on the other side of that cry, to hear it spill from the lips of the foe. Toran instantly knew his Marines needed a similar epithet, something to remind them what they were fighting for and he raised his voice to shout, "For Terra and the memory of Roboute Guilliman!"

His squads cheered at that but then Hauklo shouted, "You call that a war-cry? Pah, listen to how it's done."

Hakulo slammed the butt of his power spear on the ground three times and shouted, "War calls and we answer! Victory or death!"

As one Eighth rapped the hilts of their chainswords on their breastplates three times and roared, "Victory or death! Victory or death! Victory or death!"

The cheers were much louder this time and Toran heard Novak mutter, "Yours was good, his was better."

Toran was glad his helm meant no one could see him roll his organic eye but then he steadied himself and took up his bolter. He could see the True Believers closing now, a wall of blue ceramite barrelling forward. They were moments away from heavy weapon range, closing fast with weapons in hand. Toran would greet them with a barrage of firepower, heavy weapons first and bolters next, then the melee would commence and the trap would be sprung. Toran gripped his bolter firmly and stared at the oncoming foe, he put aside all notions of Brotherhood and kinship. They were the enemy, they were foul sinners, he would show them no mercy. The heat of battle would test both sides and he was sure the righteous would triumph once again. Toran lined up his bolter on a random Tactical Marine and waited for the foe to set foot within lascannon range. Toran opened his mouth and prepared to give the order to fire but at that very moment something unexpected occurred.

Just as the True Believers came into range there was a titanic roll of thunder, a mechanical noise made as immense machinery sprung into life. The ground rumbled and a fierce vibration arose from the ground, ringing up the boots and greaves of everybody present. Overhead the cyber-cherubs and servo-skulls ceased their droning chants and gave voice to a shriek of terror, a warning of danger and looming threat for all to hear.

The True Believers ground to a halt, stopped in their tracks by the unexpected clamour. They froze solid, weapons raised in every direction as they scanned for a threat, wary of a hidden trap. This however was not what Toran had expected for it was not of his doing. Yet at the base of his skull a sudden suspicion sprang into being, could this possibly be what he thought it was?

All along the Grand Processional the lumen orbs began to flash yellow, creating a blinding strobe effect as the siren calls wailed. Great blasts of steam began to spill out of overhead vents, filling the air with a cloying mist that clung to armour and condensed on weapon barrels. Then from behind the Primarch's Own weighty thuds rang forth, the noise of locks the size of Rhino transports being undone one by one.

"Move to the side!" Toran roared as realisation arose within him, "Get away from the Forge doors!"

Hastily his Marines ran to the side, leaving a clear path before the doors. Meanwhile the True Believers milled in uncertainty, wary of whatever was to occur next.

A terrible screech arose, a caterwauling loud enough to wake the dead as a seam appeared in the middle of the Forge doors, a crack that grew and grew ever wider. As everybody watched the great doors to the Forge slowly ground open, parting right down the middle of the skull and cog icon. The noise of them drowned out all else as their immense weight rumbled over the ferrocrete ground, as if the foundations of the world itself were shifting. Through that gap spilled out a thick, icy fog, illuminated from behind by actinic lights. Toran squinted as his autosenses tried to filter out what was emerging and at the back of his mind he dared to wonder if this could possibly be the fulfilment of his secret plan, the plan only he and handful of others had known about.

Then the fog parted to reveal a single Marine, one Space Marine made tiny by the towering height of the Forge doors. He was all alone, clad in Scout armour and his thick sideburns attested to his identity: it was Nimodes. Toran's hearts leapt at the sight and he was about to call out but then he heard a heavy tread as the mist parted again to reveal something else emerging from within the Forge… something huge.

Nimodes hurried out of the way as from the cloying mists stepped a huge mechanical war machine, walking on two legs. It had a broad flat fronting, slab-sided and heavily armoured, with a reinforced sarcophagus that was festooned by purity seals. On one side was mounted a long double-barrelled Lascanon and on the other were the multiple points of a missile launcher, packed with ordnance. It was twice the height of an Astartes and yet somehow looked squat and immensely heavy in its stride, resembling a walking tomb on legs more than anything else. Toran was stunned by the sight, one he could not help but recognise and he gasped in shock, "Venerable Temeraire."

Toran didn't understand what he was seeing, this was not what he had expected, but before he could react the mist parted again and a second shape emerged. This one was similar in shape and form but the weapons this time were the dread pendulums of a pair of mechanical claws. The Sarcophagous was marked with anvil and flame icons and its name was emblazoned upon it in beaten gold leaf. Toran read aloud in stupefied amazement, "Bellerophon, the Slayer of Despots."

Together the twin machines were a sight to make anyone step back in awe, but the spectacle had barely begun. In two lines more and more war machines emerged from the mists, their tread shaking the entire processional and their shadows eclipsing all. Before Toran's disbelieving eyes a parade of ancient warriors emerged. Each was a name etched into the histories of the Storm Heralds, every last one a living legend in their own time. In two lines they came, to the left was Varngard the Bold, Bretannia Orkbane, Haniball the Conqueror, Warmonger Yellico, and Sparticas the Doom-bringer. To the right marched Indomitable Neptun followed by Jupitre the Retaliator, Lionhearted Agincord, Tonnant Flamesword and Hibernia the Watchman.

Every Astartes present, Primarch's Own and True Believer, was rendered absolutely speechless by the sight. This was not only unprecedented, it was unthinkable. Twelve Dreadnoughts, twelve of them, all marching together. Not once in the Storm Herald's entire history had twelve of their thirteen Dreadnoughts marched at the same time. It was beyond any grasp of sanity and both the Primarch's Own and the True Believers shrank back, their looming battle banished by the incredible occurrence.

The Dreadnoughts marched in lockstep between the two sides, forcing a separation between them. They created a wall of armour and machinery, a bastion that neither side was willing to challenge. But it was not just their mass and weapons that gave pause, these warriors were the greatest and most ancient of heroes. They were the living history of the Storm Heralds, the most revered of Brothers and esteemed champions the Chapter had ever known. To oppose them was absurd; to point a weapon at one was unthinkable.

Silence fell as the Dreadnoughts separated out the two sides and Toran had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next. Then one more set of footfalls rang forth and the mists parted as one last Dreadnought emerged. This one taller and more elegantly formed, smoothly curved and gracefully limbed, where the others were squat and broad. This was the Storm Herald's thirteenth Dreadnought, the oldest and most revered of all. Nobody dared to breathe as Honourable Ajax stormed out of the Forge, sweeping his gaze imperiously over the scene.

Absolute silence fell as the ancient warrior surveyed the assembled armies, everybody freezing like vermin confronted by a great predator. Then in a voice of thunder Ajax spoke, filling the Grand Processional with his raging ire as he roared, "BRING ME LESSALL!"


	39. Chapter 39

**Domus Discordia Chapter 39**

Wrethan couldn't believe his eyes, the spectacle filling him with awe and dread in equal measure. Dreadnoughts, the most honoured and revered of all Storm Heralds, they were here in unprecedented numbers. The air thrummed with the noise of their reactors, making his teeth rattle and plumes of heat arising from the exhaust vents on their backs. The Castaferrums presented a wall of towering armour, an unassailable bastion and Wrethan could not help but notice that all their weapons were pointed right at the True Believers, not the Primarch's Own.

The Dreadnoughts peered down at the frozen True Believers and then Honourable Ajax growled, "GET OVER HERE NOW, LESSALL AND ANYONE ELSE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS MADNESS."

Without his volition Wrethan was suddenly moving, his legs responding without his brain being in any way involved. With him came Lessall and Samect, Erathor and Tygra, all the leaders of the True Believers, coming forward like scholam children before a preceptor. Lessall raised his voice with a quiver of doubt saying, "I don't know what these liars have told you but…"

With a volcanic rumbled Ajax growled, "I HAVE SEEN THE EVIDENCE OF YOUR CRIMES, YOU MURDERED GORGALL."

Wrethan could not help but notice the clarity and purpose in Ajax's voice, the absence of distraction and confusion. Fury radiated from his presence, banishing the cobwebs of the ages, lending him a razor-sharp clarity and terrifying focus. Lessall gulped and protested, "We didn't…"

Ajax stomped his foot down, making everybody scurry back a step as he snarled, "THE ICON OF OUR CHAPTER UPON YOUR SHOULDER IS THE ONLY REASON I HAVEN'T KILLED YOU ALREADY. YOUR NEXT WORDS WILL BE THE TRUTH OR THEY SHALL BE YOUR LAST!"

"It's all true!" a voice arose and it took Wrethan a heartbeat to realise that it was his own, "We did it all!"

Samect's head snapped around and he hissed, "What are you doing? You're going to get us killed!"

Wrethan was surprised to find that he didn't care; he had waged a shameful war, covering himself in dishonour and disgrace. The honour of the Storm Heralds was dust but he would be damned if he would lie for those who had destroyed it. Ajax's voice lowered until it sounded like the earth quaking as he spat, "YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO EXPLAIN YOURSELVES."

Lessall could only stand there in mute distress but Samect raised his voice to proclaim, "The galaxy has fallen into darkness and woe, the rule of the High Lords has failed. The time has come for a new order to rise, a just and strong one. The Astartes must seize the reins of power; through faith in the Divine Emperor we will build an empire worthy of Him on Terra!"

Ajax listened and was silent for a moment. Wrethan held his breath, they all did, waiting for a response and then in one word Ajax laid down his verdict, "HERETICS!"

Everybody gasped and Lessall cried, "Wait!" but the Dreadnoughts were already acting. Simultaneously every war machine erupted in a storm of firepower, a solid wall of annihilation that crashed into the packed ranks of True Believers. Waves of destruction swept over them, sundering armour and snuffing out lives. Blast and shot and las and fire fell upon them, turning Transhuman warriors into clouds of red mist and showers of bone shards.

In the first second a missile hit the leaders dead on, flashes from Rosarius' and Iron Haloes dissipated the killing power but the kinetic force of it flung them high and left them to fall helplessly back down. Wrethan felt himself slam into the ground hard, breaking his reinforced collarbone but he instantly looked up, only to behold utter carnage.

Everywhere the Dreadnoughts were wrecking utter devastation, creating piles of shattered bodies. Ajax bellowed his fury as he led the charge, his Kheres assault cannon obliterating any who stood in his path. To his left strode the lauded hero Varngard, swinging an immense chainfist that mowed down Astartes like wheat before a scythe as he roared, "Heretics must die!" While to the right stomped Bretannia, the siege Dreadnought spewing burning sheets of Prothemium from his Flamestorm cannon. Waves of fire engulfed the Astartes as he hollered, "Hell comes for you!"

Wrethan was unable to move as he watched the True Believers desperately falling back, only to run straight into the path of Haniball. He greeted them with blasts from an immense Plasma cannon as he bawled, "The fruits of treachery are vengeance!" He was flanked by Yellico, whose Grav-cannon was crushing armoured warriors into tiny spheres of bleeding metal, while Sparticas liquefied foes with pinpoint shots from a multi-melta.

In the heart of the firestorm Tonnant strode majestically. His right arm was comprised of a blade as long as a grown man, covered with flaming promethium ejected from tiny nozzles along its fuller. He hacked and sliced ceaselessly, leaving a trail of bisected and burning corpses in his wake as he proclaimed, "There is only the Emperor!" Neptun moved with him, his seismic hammer shattering all resistance with contemptuous ease as the Ironclad smashed foes apart in droves.

The True Believers were reeling under the onslaught of the Dreadnoughts but they were yet Astartes and tried to fight back. A handful of Devastators attempted to bring their Lascannons to bear, seeking to bracket a war machine. Yet before they could fire a single shot Agincord spun about and brought up a Hurricane-bolter. He bellowed, "None shall escape our wrath!" as a blizzard of bolt-rounds engulfed the Devastators, leaving them ruptured and bleeding their guts out onto the cold ferrocrete floor.

From the rear a squad of assault marines flew high on blazing jump packs but at the apex of their arc, they were intercepted by a whirlwind of autocannon rounds. It was Jupitre, his two twin-linked autocannons spewing fire as the Mortis swatted down enemies like flies. While he was engaged a trio of True Believers tried to race up behind him with melta-bombs in hand but they were intercepted by Hibernia, who levelled the fat barrel of a Frag Cannon. With a thunderous retort the cannon fired, the shell shattering instantly to spray out razor-sharp shrapnel. Two True Believers died immediately while the third fell to the ground in a bleeding heap. He feebly tried to crawl away, hand over hand, but Hibernia contemptuously stepped on him and crushed him into a sickening paste.

Wrethan was aghast; it had been less than a minute since the first shot had been fired yet the Dreadnoughts had wrought utter carnage. Their size and power were irresistible but it was the fact that they were Dreadnoughts that the True Believers couldn't cope with. These were the most revered and honoured of Brothers, veneration of them had been hammered home repeatedly until it was instinctive. To fight these warriors was a paradox the True Believers couldn't process, not in a mere handful of seconds and in those moments the Dreadnoughts fashioned a massacre.

Suddenly Wrethan saw Tygra regaining his feet and watched as he charged into the fray, Eviscerator held over his head. Bellerophon saw him coming and swung to meet him, twin siege claws held ready. Tygra pounced, swinging his blade as high as he could. It stuck the armoured sarcophagus but merely skittered off, doing nothing more than scratching the iconography. Scornfully Bellerophon snatched Tygra up, he wrapped one claw around each arm and then he pulled. Tygra's voice screamed in agony as his shoulders shattered and then ripped free, both his arms tearing clean off.

Elsewhere Wrethan saw Erathor being targeted by Temeraire. The Captain managed to dodge the Hellfire's missile by leaping to one side but he was too slow to avoid the searing Lascannon beams that followed. The incandescent energy caught him in the legs and neatly sliced them off, leaving him limbless below the thighs. Erathor crashed to the ground and was left to flop there helplessly as the battle raged on around him.

Head swimming Wrethan finally staggered to own his feet, stunned and dazed by the slaughter all around, then he saw Apothecary Lessall or rather his back. Lessall was running away as fast as his legs could carry him, abandoning his troops to die as he cravenly fled. He was chased by a hail of assault cannon rounds and the rage of Ajax as he bellowed, "YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE COWARD! I WILL FIND YOU!"

The battle was beyond recovery yet amid the death and destruction Wrethan saw Samect engage, woozily swaying on obviously broken leg bones. The High Chaplain staggered at Ajax like a drunk, trying to roar defiance but his cry came out as a mere wheezy gasp. Ajax saw him coming and paused in his rampage; he let the High Chaplain close and then spun his torso, swinging his red-hot assault cannon laterally. The wounded Space Marine was unable to dodge the multiple barrels and they caught him in the chest, knocking Samect down.

With surprising speed Ajax's foot slammed down onto Samect, pinning him to the ground. The High Chaplain's left leg, hip and shoulder were trapped under the Dreadnought's foot and he was unable to move at all as his Ceramite plates cracked under the strain. Ajax leaned down, an impressive feat for a mechanical war machine and wrapped one metal hand around Samect's exposed right half. Samect cried, "No, not like this!" but he was helpless to resist as Ajax gripped him tightly and then heaved upwards.

Ceramite shattered, bones snapped, sinews ripped and the High Chaplain shrieked as Ajax tore him in half, bisecting him diagonally into two gory halves. Incredibly Samect wasn't dead; his implanted organs fighting a losing battle to keep him alive. Samect screamed weakly and beat his remaining hand upon the Dreadnought's fist but Ajax merely tossed the remaining bits of the High Chaplain over his shoulder. Still screaming Samect fell into the melee where he was abruptly flattened by the rampaging Dreadnoughts.

Wrethan suddenly realised that he was the final senior officer, the True Believers would look to him to lead them in their last stand. Yet all he could do was watch in mute horror as the Dreadnoughts massacred any that stood against them. In barely two minutes they had killed half the True Believers and it would take less time than that to finish off the remainder. They were power incarnate, they were hatred made manifest, they were the Angels of Death. Suddenly Wrethan saw Ajax turn in his direction and stampede towards him, roaring, "YIELD OR FIGHT AS YOU WILL, IT MATTERS NOT, NONE SHALL ESCAPE OUR WRATH!"

Wrethan heard the words and they broke into his consciousness, triggering a revelation. It was a thought he had never had before, a concept he had never even considered. Suddenly Wrethan beheld another option; he grasped the alternative that he had been seeking so desperately. Wrethan saw the possibility of redemption bloom, not for himself but for his Chapter. He finally saw a way for the Storm Heralds to reclaim their honour, even though it was the most aberrant thought he had ever had. It was an idea that struck at the core of all his values, it was a notion that all his training and hypno-indoctrination would have him reject, for it violated every tenant and doctrine of the Adeptus Astartes. Wrethan thought it to be the single most inspiring notion he had ever conceived of and he thanked the Emperor for it with all his hearts.

As Ajax bore down upon him Wrethan shouted as loudly as he could, "We surrender!"

Ajax suddenly ground to halt, stopped in his tracks by the unexpected cry and he stammered, "YOU… YOU DO WHAT?!"

Wrethan answered by calling out, "All True Believers as the last officer standing I command you to lay down your arms. Do not resist the Dreadnoughts in any way!"

Suddenly silence fell, as all looked on in stupefied disbelief. Even the Dreadnoughts froze, unable to grasp what was happening. Astartes did not surrender, they never yielded, not when they had a principle to fight and die for. But at Wrethan had at the last moment realised that even though it was too late for him, he could yet save the honour of his Chapter.

By making sure the right side won.

With all eyes upon him Wrethan fell to his knees before Ajax, lifting his Crozius laterally above his head in both hands. Wrethan looked up at the monstrous war machine and cried out in blessed relief, "We surrender unto you Honourable Ajax. Victory is yours!"


	40. Chapter 40

**Domus Discordia Chapter 40**

Thunder rolled, filling the air with its resonant timbre. It was repeated a second later and again with mechanical precision. The source of this calamity was Honourable Ajax, who was beating his great fist upon the Adamantium doors of the grand council chamber. Those barriers were weighty and thick, built to keep out an army, but Ajax didn't seem to care. Again and again, he battered at the doors, seemingly intending to keep going until the doors gave way or his fist wore away to nothing.

Standing well back from the irate Dreadnought, Captain Toran watched waited with two squads of Tactical Marines, along with, Furion, Novak, Persion and Captain Hakulo. The party had tracked the footsteps of Lessall, who had fled the battle outside the Forge's doors, leaving his Marines to die. Toran was still amazed by the event, the rampaging Dreadnoughts ending the whole war in under five minutes.

Yet the outcome had been one he had never expected: the True Believers had surrendered. Toran had witnessed it with his own eyes and still didn't believe it. Yet the strangest thing of all had been Wrethan, he had seemed almost happy to be defeated and had not resisted when they clapped him in chains.

The Primarch's Own had been unsure what to do with their unexpected captives and in the end Toran had settled on leaving them under the watchful eyes of the other Dreadnoughts. He had also left their sole Honour Guard behind, to make sure that nobody took it into their heads to slit the prisoners' throats. Apothecary Memnos had also insisted on staying behind, to keep as many of the injured alive as he could, a point Toran hadn't cared enough about to argue.

Thus Toran had led the pursuit of Lessall, following his tracks easily to the grand council chamber. Meanwhile he had dispatched Terminator Sergeant Orath to seize control of the interior defences. The last thing they needed was for Lessall to level the whole Fortress-Monastery in an act of petty spite. Nimodes had departed too, claiming he had to go and find Jediah and from his tone Toran didn't hold out any hope his Brother was still alive.

Toran was distracted as Persion remarked between thunderclaps, "Is it just me or is Ajax angrier than usual?"

Everybody looked at the Dreadnought, whose fist was still battering at the doors as he bellowed, "GET OUT HERE AND FACE ME, YOU FECKLESS COWARD!"

"The word apocalyptic doesn't cover it," Furion stated, "By the Maelstrom, what did you tell him?"

Toran answered hesitantly, "I may have told him what we uncovered in the Apothecarion…"

"Throne's sake," Novak muttered, "We will be scraping Lessall's remains off the walls."

Once more Ajax struck the Adamantium doors, causing wide cracks to run through the thick stonework around the hinges. The doors were swaying under every blow now as Ajax roared, "MURDERER OF CHILDREN!"

Furion turned to Toran and said, "Captain, we must temper his wrath, Lessall must live to stand trial."

"Trial?" Novak spat, "You would give him the dignity of a trial? He doesn't deserve one, I want to peel off his skin and hang him upside down over an open fire."

Hakulo concurred, "We should cut off his eyelids and then his ears and then his fingers and toes. Inch by inch, take him apart and then reconstruct him with servitor parts so we can do it all over again."

Toran found absolutely nothing wrong with that idea but Furion rebuked, "Are our shames not great enough already without you adding to our ignominy?! We are honourable warriors, we do not indulge in petty torture, we take no pleasure from pain and suffering. The Primarch wrote that justice cannot be accomplished in secrets and shadows; it must be seen to be done, out in the open. Justice must be clean and impartial, not sordid and base."

Toran wasn't convinced but he said, "You can try to persuade Ajax if you will, but I doubt he will listen."

The doors were quivering under Ajax's blows now, stone dust spilling from the widening cracks in the supports. Then Ajax raised his fist high and cried, "YOUR DOOM IS AT HAND!" as he struck one last time. The doors collapsed under the titanic blow, falling inwards as their supports crumbled and gave way. With that Ajax charged into the grand council chamber, followed closely by the Initiates.

Toran had expected to find Lessall plotting one last scheme, he had expected a trap or a deadly snare but what he found instead baffled him. The grand council chamber was almost empty and Lessall himself was slumped in the Chapter Master's chair. He was surrounded by piles of empty bottles and bore a glazed look upon his face. Toran was dumbfounded; was this really the wicked architect of all their woe, drinking himself into a pathetic stupor?

Even Ajax barked in confusion, "WHAT IS THIS FARCE?!"

Lessall woozily looked up and his face was pale as he called, "Forgive me, for not standing; I'm not sure I can."

Toran marched angrily forward and barked, "Are you… drunk?"

Lessall snorted and murmured , "Of course I am, though I had to take some implant suppressants first. What did you expect: to find me trying to blow up the island? To be escaping in a gunship, swearing a fiendish revenge?"

Toran barked indignantly, "Have you no pride?"

Lessall took a long pull from a bottle in one hand and then slurred, "What's the point? I am defeated; I was defeated before I even started."

Testily Ajax growled, "YOU ARE A PATHETIC WRETCH."

Lesssall's face was going waxy and he said, "I suppose that is how history will remember me, the megalomaniacal villain. But it wasn't supposed to be like this at all, it was supposed to be beautiful. I was going to make the Chapter strong and free, I was going to raise us up to our proper station, it should have been glorious."

"Don't peddle your delusions here," Furion snarled in disgust.

Lessall seemed to be getting limper as he expounded, "Don't pretend any of you genuinely care for the High Lords, you've all seen their failures. We could have done so much better than they did, we could have become what they were meant to have been. I told Gorgall that, so many times, but he wouldn't listen. If only he had listened, none of this bloodshed would have been necessary. I got impatient, I moved too soon and that was my downfall."

"Enough," Toran barked, "You are defeated."

"Oh, I was defeated before I even started," Lessall slurred, then he waved his other hand which held a data-slate, "My Empire was killed with a simple message. I knew the second I read it that my dream was dead, that there was no point to any of this. My Empire was stillborn the second he woke up. If only I'd known this earlier, I never would have dared to challenge him for supremacy."

Stonily Furion declared, "You are under arrest, you will be dragged from this place to face justice for your crimes."

Surprisingly Lessall sneered, "Oh, I'm sure you have some very inventive executions in mind. Something involving fire and knives and that pet savage of yours, but I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I will be the arbiter of my own fate and I have decided to skip the inevitable torture and die on my own terms."

Toran started in surprise and barked, "What have you done?!"

"Why did you assume," Lessall slurred, "This was only wine?"

Swiftly Persion snatched up an empty bottle, he sniffed it and hissed, "Poison!"

"No!" Novak barked in outrage, "Poison doesn't work on Astartes; you don't get to die that easily!"

But Lessall was going grey already and slurred, "I am… an Apothecary and I know our limitations… it just takes a lot of poison that's all. It's not completely painless… but it's still better than what you would do to me. But to think… I could have seen him… if only I had been a little more patient…"

Then Lessall keeled over and stopped breathing as the data-slate slid from his hands. Hakulo stomped forward and roared, "No! He has to suffer for what he's done! He doesn't get to die so quickly!"

Novak hissed, "Revive him, bring him back, so we can kill him again!"

Yet Furion rebuked them, "He's dead already. Stop demeaning yourselves and act with some dignity!"

Ajax rumbled "HE IS RIGHT, DO NOT LET THIS FILTH MAKE YOU BEHAVE LIKE GUTTER TRASH. YOU ARE NOBLE ASTARTES, ACT LIKE IT."

Toran breathed out slowly and said, "Lessall is dead, nothing else matters. We shall strip his armour and throw the body into the ocean. Leave his Gene-seed to rot; Lessall shall have no legacy, let that be punishment enough."

As Lessall's corpse was dragged away by a couple of Initiates, Novak frowned and asked, "What was he was drivelling on about?"

Let me check," Persion said, scooping up the discarded data-slate. He started to idly peruse the contents but then he frowned. Persion peered closer and then gasped as he frantically scrolled the contents, like a man who couldn't believe his own eyes.

Toran frowned and said, "Persion, what is it?"

Persion was desperately reading the slate, over and over as if looking for a mistake and he muttered, "It can't be, it can't be. This is impossible."

"Persion!" Toran called, "Speak to us."

Persion looked up and stammered, "It's that message from Terra, the Librarians finally finished decoding it… He is awake!"

"Not you too," Hakulo muttered, "Just tell us what it says."

Persion could only exclaim, "He is on Terra, he's gone to Terra!"

Suddenly Ajax stamped his foot, sending vibrations up everybody's legs as he growled, "IF YOU DON'T START MAKING SENSE RIGHT NOW I WILL BECOME ANGRY WITH YOU, YOU WOULDN'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M ANGRY."

Persion gathered himself up and started again saying, "Primarch… the Primarch is awake."

Toran felt his guts instantly tense up and a feeling of dread steal over him at the very thought. Primarchs; the gene-sire of the Adeptus Astartes and ultimate embodiments of the Emperor's designs. Half of them had been enslaved by Chaos and become monstrous nightmares, Daemon Princes of the Warp. Every time one of those abominations had left the Immaterium it had been a time of woe and suffering for all mankind, worlds had burned and billions of widows had wept at their passing.

Hakulo was going pale as he stammered, "Oh throne no, not them… anyone but them."

Furion gulped and dare to ask, "Which one is it: Magnus, Mortarion, Fulgrim… Angron?"

But Persion was shaking his head saying, "No, you don't understand, I don't mean a Traitor Primarch. It's not just any Primarch; it's the Primarch, OUR Primarch. Roboute Guilliman has risen from the Temple of Correction; he walks among the stars once more!"

Every jaw fell at that pronouncement and stunned disbelief was on every face as Novak exclaimed, "This is a joke, it must be a joke".

Hakulo looked gobsmacked as he agreed, "This can't be real."

Persion hastily explained, "It's marked with the seals of the Adeptus Terra, the Fabricator-General, the Inquisition, the Ecclesiarch and the Captain-General of the Custodian Guard." Toran snatched the data-slate from Persion's hand and frantically scrolled through it, looking for a mistake. Yet it was all there, in glowing letters, the facts laid bare for his eyes to read.

Utterly astonished Toran recited aloud, "In the name of the God-Emperor, vigilant and protective, one majesty everlasting. Let it be known that the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar, Avenging Son and Eagle of the East, has returned unto humanity in its hour of greatest need. In a personal audience with the God-Emperor of Mankind, the Thirteenth Primarch has been granted supreme authority over all Imperial armed forces and civil institutions. Hereby the High Lords of Terra vote unanimously to appoint Roboute Guilliman to the joint offices of Imperial Regent and Lord of Commander of the Imperium, investing him with all the rights and privileges so entailed. Let all dominions and principalities, all Lords Militants, Admirals, Archmagi, Planetary Governors, Chapter Masters and all other personages of rank, attend upon this ordination and render unto this office such succour and fealty as they would unto the God-Emperor himself. For so he is the instrument and proxy of the Golden Throne."

Absolute silence reigned as everybody stood in dumbstruck awe, every soul struggling to process the concept. Nobody was able to say a single word and all they could do was stand there, mouths agape as everything they had ever known was rescinded and a new reality formed around them.

A life filled with wonder and hope.


	41. Chapter 41

**Domus Discordia Chapter 41**

Silence reigned in the grand council chamber, silence undercut only by the dull thrum of power armour. The Astartes stood in a loose circle, all looking at each other in bewildered confusion. All of them were struggling to process what they had heard; all of them were trying to imagine a universe where their gene-sire lived. Not in stasis, not as a distant and cold statue, but as a vibrant living being, able to think and speak and make his will a reality.

Toran saw Hakulo open his mouth, but no words came out before he shut it.

Then Furion said, "What…" before going silent again.

Toran understood their confusion all too well; he couldn't comprehend what this meant, how the Imperium would be changed by this. Finally Toran broke the silence as he uttered, "This is monumental, it changes everything."

"Does it?" Novak asked, reaching out to take the data-slate, "He is only one man, I mean Astartes, no I mean… I don't know what I mean. Seriously, what can he do about a whole galaxy being lost to darkness?"

"He is Guilliman," Furion declared, "You know the legends of his vision and drive, if anyone can reverse this galactic calamity, it is him."

Persion leaned over Novak's shoulder and looked at the data-slate remarking, "The time-stamp on this message is a couple of years old, it must have been delayed by Warp Storm activity. Surely he must have moved on from Terra by now."

"Hold on, there's more," Novak said scrolling down, "Yes there are additional messages after the first. Guilliman didn't stay on Terra long; he's already organised a counter-offensive. The 'Indomitus Crusade' is its official title; it's already left the Solar System and is liberating the core worlds as we speak."

Suddenly Ajax rumbled, "GUILLIMAN WALKS THE STARS… it is remarkable. Even when we were first founded Guilliman was but a myth, a mere fable to remind us of better days. To think he walks among us, the universe is turned upon its head."

Toran noted that the shock had made Ajax forget to make his voice boom but the Captain glossed over it saying, "He may be alive but he's half a galaxy away from here, we can't expect him to fix our problems for us."

But Persion stated, "Actually I have a question: what the Frak are we going to do when he finds out what's been going on here?!"

Hakulo nodded and remarked, "A Chapter at war with itself, heresy and betrayal, secrets and murder. Apothecaries and Chaplains disgraced and a Chapter Master dead. Guilliman is going to be pissed."

Furion drew himself up and said, "We had better get our house in order, fast, before he notices us. We have a monumental amount of work ahead of us. "

"Then let us waste no more time here," Toran said, "Our companies need us and we must keep them busy."

Slowly the group turned and walked out, putting thoughts of Lessall and his crimes from their minds. As they walked Novak was still scrutinising the data-slate and queried, "What is a Primaris Marine?"

"A what?" Persion inquired.

Novak showed him the data-slate and remarked, "This bit here, it says in addition to the Crusade Guilliman has ordered a Founding of New Chapters. Comprised of 'Primaris Marines', what's that supposed to mean?"

"Probably nothing," Persion demurred, "A new Founding is most welcome but it won't affect us. I'm sure these 'Primaris Marines' will turn out to be nothing special."

Toran agreed and put it from his mind as they left the grand council chamber. They stepped out into the night air, finding the stars still twinkling overhead. Toran was amazed that all these events had taken place in only one of Lujan II long nights, a little over a Terran week, so much had happened in such a short space of time. So much was left to do.

As they exited Toran saw a small crowd had gathered, Initiates waiting for their officers to emerge. Toran saw their expectant faces and knew they longed to hear what was occurring. He wasn't quite sure how to put it but he wouldn't lie to his Brothers. Toran drew in a breath and opened his vox so all could hear him, anywhere on the island, then declared, "Brothers now hear this, Lessall is dead by his own hand. The coward committed suicide rather than face justice, let his name be forevermore deemed a symbol of shame!"

Excited mutters arose at that but Toran wasn't done, "Brothers, there is more, I don't know how to tell you this, save to say it outright. Astounding news has come from Terra, news that changes everything. The great Primarch Roboute Guilliman has arisen from his ten millennia of slumber, our gene-father walks among us!"

Absolute silence fell and shock was upon every face as the news sank in. Then from the back a voice called out, "Holy crap!"

Toran peered over and saw it was Nimodes who had spoken, the scout having returned unto them and he wasn't alone. Toran moved forward hastily and the crowd parted before him, to reveal Nimodes standing alongside Jediah, who was sitting on a low wall. Toran gasped at the sight, Jediah's armour was in tatters, absolutely ruined in a way Toran had never seen before. His ceramite was shattered, his fibre bundles wrecked and his backpack generator missing entirely. Jediah's face was hardly better, a mask of dried blood and crisscrossed scars that would never fade. Yet he still breathed and seemed unperturbed by the news.

Toran skidded to a halt and said, "Jediah, you're alive!"

"Aye," Nimodes answered for him, "I found him right where I left him, bleeding and broken but still alive."

Persion gasped, "But we were told you were outnumbered five-to-one, how did you beat such odds?"

Jediah's lip twitched and he raised one arm slowly, the armour grinding without power, to reveal a combat blade that was broken half-way along its length. Jediah muttered, "It was a good job I had a second knife, I really would have been in trouble without this."

Hakulo gasped, "One Space Marine against five, incredible."

Furion smiled and said, "You have no idea how nasty Jediah can be."

Novak laughed out loud and jested, "They only outnumbered you fivefold, maybe you should have let them call up some reinforcements to make it a fair fight."

Jediah snorted in amusement but then winced and held his side in pain as a trickle of blood flowed. Toran gestured him to stay still and said, "Don't move until Memnos can look at your wounds. The Chapter owes you a tremendous debt and you too Nimodes, you two turned the tide with your actions."

Nimodes shook off the praise saying, "It was your idea and you were absolutely correct. There was nothing but bare Ferrocrete between the Primary plasma reactor and the back of the Dreadnought's stasis-crypts. It took every melta-bomb I had to burn through, but I made it inside. The hard part was convincing the Techmarines not to shoot me, but when that transmission came across the vox they finally picked a side."

"They certainly did," Furion stated, "To see so many Dreadnoughts awake at once, I didn't think it was possible. Some of those ancient warriors haven't stirred in centuries."

"That was my doing," Ajax said, seemingly forgetting to switch his vox-speaker back, "I was just drifting off when the message came, once I saw it I insisted on inputting it into every one of my brethren's cortexes. None of them could sleep through that, the results were impressive, to say the least ."

Toran nodded and said, "The war is over but now we have to rebuild everything we have lost. The task before us is monumental."

Furion said, "Our numbers have been decimated, but at least the serfs have kept the gene-seed secure. The Fortress-Monastery itself took minimal damage, we have everything we need to rebuild, properly this time."

"Except a Chaplaincy, an Apothecary order and a Master of Scouts," Novak remarked.

Toran eyed Nimodes thoughtfully but kept his opinions to himself as he said, "Problems for later, for now let us concentrate on what we do have. Which is a long list of problems to be resolved."

"Speaking of which," Persion muttered, "Here comes a vexing one."

Toran twisted his head and looked past the milling crowd of Astartes to see a sight he certainly did not welcome. Marching towards them was Chief Librarian Echeb, in his full plate armour and bearing his staff topped with its brass orrery. Along with him marched two Librarians, one of whom was Arvael. Mutters arose at the sight, whispers that the Librarians shouldn't be here. Toran understood his Brother's ire all too well, war had ravaged the Storm Heralds and the Librarians had done nothing. Deeds like that were not soon forgotten.

Echeb came to a halt and nodded respectfully as he said, "We were looking for you."

Hakulo spat, "Your kind isn't welcome here, go back and cower in your tower like the cowards you are."

Echeb didn't react but Arvael noticeably winced at the insult. Echeb ignored the rebuke and said, "I come to deliver news, Ninth Captain Phalros has received your Astropathic cry, he turns about and intends to return with utmost speed. He will be here soon."

Hakulo sneered, "Fine, we've got the message. Now get out of our sight and don't come back."

Echeb didn't look concerned but Arvael spoke to say, "We know you resent us but we couldn't get involved. We had to keep the Warp out of the fighting."

Angry whispers arose all around but Toran declared, "I am wary of the Warp but you forsook our Brotherhood, how do you expect us to respond?"

From his wall Jediah sneered, "You are weak."

Arvael paled but now Echeb did respond, shadows gathered around him and his eyes took on an eldritch glow. Somehow he seemed taller and mightier as a cold wind stirred; one that cut through ceramite armour like it was gossamer thin. The Psykanna Primus towered over all as he declared, "Do not take us for cowards and weaklings, we are held to a higher standard than others, a most terrible and fearful measure. Did you really want the Warp to become involved in this? Even if we could have stopped the fighting, would you desire to live under our subsequent rule? Would you accept the Storm Heralds becoming answerable to the Warp?"

Silence fell as everybody shrank back before Echeb, then he breathed out and his power dissipated, leaving only shivers behind. Toran was forcibly reminded why the Librarians were an order apart and he quickly said, "It is not within our remit to chastise you, we have no authority over your order. Yet understand this, you have sacrificed our respect and good-will. You will have to labour hard if you wish to be welcome in our Brotherhood ever again."

Echeb nodded and said, "We are accustomed to being shunned, we shall not question your choices."

"Then you will not help us rebuild?" Furion asked.

Echeb shook his head and explained, "We shall be there, to advise and support but we shall not place ourselves over you, it is not the place of the Warp to dictate the hearts of men. You must decide how you wish to proceed from here."

Toran accepted this and said, "Then we shall redress our wounds and ensure our prisoners are held accountable. Once Phalros returns we shall consider matters of reorganisation and rebuilding. We have only three Captains now, all must be equally involved. We have to ensure the Storm Heralds rise from the ashes, better this time, purer and nobler than we have been before."

"Most wise," Echeb replied, "And what shall we do regarding the Primarch's return?"

"A matter for another day," Toran stated, "For now we concentrate on healing our wounds."

Arvael however hesitantly said, "Captain, I would like to serve with you again, sometime in the future… If you will have me."

Angry mutters arose but Furion declared, "It is yet early for such talk, perhaps you may find a place among us, but you would be wise to let tempers cool. You must prove yourselves stalwart and true before any among us would willingly stand beside you in battle."

Toran agreed, "For now you can go tend to the prisoners, keep anyone from doing something foolish. In time we will discuss assignments."

Then Toran addressed the crowd saying, "Now everybody, move out and secure this island. Clear the damage, secure the facilities, retrieve the fallen and reassure the serfs that all is well. We have a lot of work before us!


	42. Chapter 42

**Domus Discordia Chapter 42**

The cage was small and cramped, barely long enough for an Astartes to sit with his legs stretched out before him. The bars were cold and exposed, closing in on all sides, above and below. There was not enough room to stand, so all one could do was sit there, naked and cold. Wrethan didn't care though, it was better than he deserved.

Wrethan had not resisted when he was clapped in chains and dragged away, along with the other True Believers. Their capturers did not seem to know what to do with them and they had been left under the care of the Dreadnoughts while these cages had been hurriedly fashioned. The True Believers had been stripped of their armour and weapons then thrown into the cages, located in an empty Thunderhawk bay, while the Dreadnoughts watched on. The cages were too small, the bay was unheated, the lights never dimmed and they had no ablution facilities at all. By Astartes standards it was surprisingly generous of their gaolers.

Wrethan sat with his eyes closed but could still hear his compatriots talking. The True Believers were angry, they were resentful and they weren't being quiet about it. Wrethan could hear heated words being exchanged, accusations and threats of retribution. They didn't understand why they had surrendered, they didn't understand why they had not fought to the death, they simply couldn't process the concept of it. Wrethan kept quiet though, he understood, he knew exactly why it had been essential that they offered no resistance.

Wrethan's enhanced hearing could hear more than a few plotting to escape and a few others scheming to end his life at the first opportunity. One Marine was even trying to chew his way out of his cage, using his acidic salvia to dissolve the bars. He was quickly disabused of that notion by Dreadnought Hibernia, who loudly stomped over and informed him that if he persisted in his efforts then he would receive a Frag Cannon blast to the face. Between the cages, the Dreadnoughts and the unexpected appearance of the Librarians, there was no possibility of escape. Many of the True Believer couldn't have fled if they wanted to, one hundred and seventy-seven of them had gone into the battle and only ninety-one of them had survived. Half their force, annihilated in two minutes and every survivor bore crippling injuries of some sort. Wrethan was not concerned either way, even had his capturers been foolish enough to leave them unobserved he would not flee. It was his duty to stay here.

After a day or so had passed Wrethan heard footsteps approaching, smaller and less thunderous. He opened his eyes and saw the sight of Apothecary Memnos in scuffed white armour. Memnos was slowly working his way up and down the rows of cages, checking each survivor's injuries in turn. He was followed by a bevy of servitors, bearing pliable bowls filled with synthi-gruel, which they disturbed to the prisoners one by one. They were also escorted by Dreadnoughts Agincord and Tonnant, just in case anybody got any silly notions of resistance.

Wrethan waited serenely as Memnos spent an hour feeding the captives and checking their wounds. A few were so badly injured that they had to be assisted to eat, an indignity they bore stoically. Eventually Memnos came closer and two cages down Wrethan heard Captain Tygra snarl some invective, but a mechanical growl from Dreadnought Tonnant put a stop to that. With his torso missing both arms and shoulders, Tygra had to have the bowl of gruel held up to his lips but he guzzled it down, resentment burning in his eyes. Memnos moved on and soon reached Wrethan's cage. Here the Apothecary crouched down and said, "Wrethan you seem hale, an oddity in this company."

Wrethan calmly replied, "As the Emperor wills."

Memnos looked thoughtful and queried, "You're not plotting to escape?"

Wrethan was utterly serene as he replied, "I am exactly where I am supposed to be."

Memnos glanced over his shoulder and said, "Give me a moment."

Agincord growled louder but Memnos spat, "He's not going anywhere, give me some space."

The Dreadnoughts slowly ground around on their waist gimbals, giving the appearance of privacy but Wrethan was certain they could still monitor everything. Memnos passed a bowl of Synthi-gruel through the cage bars and quietly muttered, "I needed to speak to you, I need your counsel."

"Oh?" asked Wrethan taking a mouthful of Synthi-gruel, which he was reassured to find was as completely unpalatable as it had ever been. As the old joke went, their armour repair paste tasted better.

Memnos leaned in and whispered, "I have to know why you surrendered."

Wrethan swallowed, ignoring the familiar gag-reflex then said, "Because it was the right thing to do."

"The right thing," Memnos sighed, "I don't even know what that is any more."

Wrethan raised an eyebrow and remarked, "Surely you of all Brothers should be proud of yourself, you alone among Apothecaries retain your honour."

Memnos shook his head and uttered, "There are things you don't know about me, things I can't escape from. I have killed innocents, cruelly and with malice of forethought, now even my hypno-indoctrination cannot suppress the turmoil in my hearts. I see their faces when I close my eyes; I hear their cries when I eat, when I tend to my duties and when I mediate. They are with me constantly; I cannot stop hearing them, I can hear them now."

"You feel guilty," Wrethan concluded.

"Guilt?!" Memnos spat the word like it was an insult, "Astartes do not feel guilt, it is excised from our being. We do not tolerate such weakness."

"If only that were so," Wrethan sighed, "Space Marines were made to know no fear, but as for sorrow, anguish and remorse… in these ways we are not so far from human as many would like to believe."

Memnos leaned in and asked, "How do I get rid of it?"

Wrethan choked down his remaining Synthi-gruel and then stated, "You do not try. To avoid your guilt, to bury it under rage, despair, passion or avarice is the path to Chaos. That is the way of the Traitors, our lost kin who seek to drown their shame under an ocean of blood. To avoid such damnation you must atone for what you have done, you must seek the due punishment with an open heart. Accept without reservation or self-deception that you deserve your penance, only then can your guilt be expunged. Only then can you strive to be better than you were before."

Memnos took the bowl back and questioned, "Is that why you surrendered?"

"Partly," Wrethan said, "Now you should go, you have others to tend to."

Memnos stood up but before he departed the Apothecary asked, "Did you hear the news?"

"Guilliman lives," Wrethan remarked, "Yes, even here word reached us."

Memnos frowned and commented, "You don't seem very excited."

Wrethan closed his eyes and said, "It hardly matters, we will be executed long before he hears of us."

Memnos and the Dreadnoughts moved on, leaving Wrethan to his meditations. After a few minutes Wrethan heard a voice calling his name and he opened his eyes. Straight across from him was Captain Erathor, whose legs were neatly truncated at the thigh. Erathor saw him open his eyes and hissed, "Wrethan, did you mean it, are we to be executed?"

Wrethan replied calmly, "Do you doubt it?"

"Aren't you angry?" Erathor hissed, "Don't you want to do something?"

Wrethan replied placidly, "It is as it should be; we sinned and will suffer the consequences."

From further down the line Tygra spat, "Victor's justice, the winners taking out their retribution on the losers!"

Wrethan glared at him and growled, "Do we deserve any less?"

Tygra looked furious as he snarled, "They were wise to separate us, arms or not, I would kill you for your betrayal!"

Erathor concurred, "You abandoned the cause, you gave up the fight! What kind of Astartes are you?!"

Jeers came from all around as the True Believers repeated the calls and threats. Wrethan however felt his own ire stir and he barked, "Is that what you think of me?! That I abandoned the Chapter, that I gave up on us! Nothing could be further from the truth, I fought for the Chapter then and I fight for the Chapter now! Yes, even sitting here, in this cage, I fight for the sake of the Storm Heralds!"

"You are mad," Tygra sneered, "You've lost your mind!"

Wrethan drew in a breath and said, "Answer me this: What are Storm Heralds?"

Silence fell and Wrethan knew every one of his kin were listening intently as he proclaimed, "Are we our ships? Are we our armour or our weapons or the Fortress-Monastery? No, those are but the tools in our hands. What we are is a Brotherhood, a band of warriors, dedicated to upholding certain principles. Strip all else away from us and we will still have those ideals, we will still be Storm Heralds."

"You surrendered out of principle?" Erathor asked hesitantly, his voice uncertain.

Wrethan explained, "Loyalty, integrity, humble service and the protection of the Emperor's realm. These are the bedrocks of our identity, the foundations of our honour. We each swore to preserve those principles, against all threats, until our deaths. Those ideals yet live and so long as our principles survive the Storm Heralds will endure. Through our acts here our Chapter's honour can be saved!"

Tygra shook his head and said, "How does surrendering save the Chapter's honour?"

"Take yourselves out of the equation," Wrethan explained, "Consider this: two men fight, one led astray by lies, committing treachery and murder. The other standing for truth, against all odds, even when defeat seemed certain and danger loomed on all sides. Ask yourselves, who would you desire to win such a conflict? On which side of that line would you choose to stand?"

Erathor spat, "You peddle delusions and fallacies. The victor decides what is just, don't cling to higher notions than that."

Wrethan glared at him and snarled, "And what of Maxitio?"

"Maxitio," Erathor gulped going pale, "Maxitio… was my friend, the most honourable man I ever knew and I killed him."

Wrethan affirmed, "A good and noble Brother-Captain, cut down by his own blood kin. Maxitio lies in his grave while his killer still draws breath. Were it anyone else would, you not be screaming for justice? Would you not do all within your power to see your friend avenged?"

Erathor looked down and whispered, "I cannot deny the truth, I would not rest until his killer was dead. Maxitio's death demands justice."

"Do not hide from your shame, that is the path to Chaos," Wrethan stated, "Neither should you resist our executions, for they are most assuredly deserved. Our victorious kin see will justice done, they will restore our Chapter's honour and thus the Storm Heralds will rise from the ashes."

Yet Tygra spat, "They will do more than kill us, they will burn our gene-seed, cast our names from the Scrolls of Honour. We will have no legacy, our names will not be recited on the feast days, future generations will not even remember us."

"It does not matter if they remember us," Wrethan rebuked angrily, "We shall know that our deaths will restore our Chapter's honour. If we accept this without rancour, then the Emperor will see we are yet pure in our hearts and He will know the character of our spirits."

"You would have us go meekly to the executioner's chopping block?" Tygra spat.

"Our lives were forfeit the second we swore to serve the Chapter," Wrethan declared, "Our bodies, our minds and our souls, all offered up for the betterment of the Storm Heralds. Even the time and manner of our deaths was not ours to choose, the only choice any of us has have ever had was how we would face death when the hour came."

"I understand now why you surrendered," Erathor stated as he bowed his head, "I thought our only choices were between shameful death and lives of perfidy but I see now there is another option. We can yet die with pride, in the service of something noble, even if all others spit upon our names forevermore."

Wrethan lifted his head and declared for all to hear, "We die so the Chapter can live and it is right for us to do so. Join with me Brothers and let us commend our souls unto the Emperor. We shall meet Him soon and He shall see that we died for the nobility of our Chapter and that we knew no fear."


	43. Chapter 43

**Domus Discordia Chapter 43**

The Reclusiam was as quiet and solemn as ever, the space resonating with dignity and reverence. The walls were untouched by the recent fighting and the shimmering stasis fields still shone, their contents undisturbed by the calamities that had engulfed the island home of the Storm Heralds. The stained glass windows glowed in the daylight, projecting the images of saints and heroes onto the marble floors. In here it would be tempting to think that nothing had ever happened, that the war had never occurred. Yet to those present the facts were undeniable, the fall-out still to be dealt with.

Standing before the golden arch Captain Toran was quietly reflecting. He was clad in a loose robe, his armour having been stripped by irate artificers and taken away for repair and re-sanctification. The wizened artificers had harangued Toran thoroughly for the battered state of his plate. To those aged savants rank was an irrelevant detail and woe betide the warrior, no matter how high, who dared treat his armour's spirit with anything less than the most reverent care.

It had been several Terran weeks since the fighting had ended and the victors had determined that nothing could be resolved until all their Captains were reunited, until Phalros returned. Toran looked to his side, where Phalros was stood in robes of his own, gazing upon the golden architecture. Phalros' patrician features looked glum, his stern visage cracked by sorrow and grief.

The Ninth Captain had received the Astropathic cry long before he reached his target and had aborted his mission immediately. He had turned his Strike Cruiser around and sailed for home, but still had arrived far too late to participate in the fighting. Phalros had received detailed reports before he set foot on the planet but he still seemed shocked and dismayed by recent events.

Phalros sucked in a breath and said, "I never thought it would come to this, how could it go so far?"

Toran nodded in understanding and explained, "None of us did, none of us knew how deep the rot went."

Phalros shook his head and said, "Samect was always a zealot, even by our standards. So convinced of his righteousness that he thought anything he did was justified, merely because it was him doing it. Lessall however… he was ruthless and ambitious. I should have known he would be plotting something, I should never have left."

From Toran's other side Hakulo, who wore a short toga to leave his arms free, growled, "It's not your fault, it is mine. I was in their camp and heard nothing, had I known what they were planning then I would have rammed my spear into their hearts first."

"A shame you didn't," Phalros commented, "We could have avoided so much carnage."

"They are dead, that's what matters" Toran reassured him, "Now we can put these sordid affairs behind us. Now we can rebuild properly."

Phalros looked down and said, "Not quite, there was an issue on my ship. An incident occurred."

"Ninth Company's Chaplain?" Toran guessed.

"Aye, Chaplain Megaro," Phalros answered, "As soon as I got your message I ordered him confined to quarters, I put a pair of my most trusted Initiates on his door and told him I would give him a fair hearing once we got home. But it seems he had ideas of his own on the matter."

"Tell me he didn't kill the guards and escape," Hakulo pressed.

"Worse," Phalros sighed, "All three of them disappeared, he must have turned them to his cause. As soon as we reached orbit an Arvus Lighter and three other Brothers went missing, bewitching the Machine Spirits to conceal their exodus. They could have reached any of the orbital docks before we noticed their deceit. I dispatched squads to hunt them down but with the number of Pilgrim ships in orbit, leaving daily to resume their journeys, they may have left the system already."

Toran growled angrily, "Lessall had agents in the Ninth all along."

"Aye," Phalros hissed, "I thought my Company was united behind me but I was wrong. We are as divided as the rest of the Chapter."

"This is intolerable," Hakulo spat, "We must hunt them down. The rot must be burned out, root and branch."

"We must reorganise first," Toran countered, "We have half of the First Company, one Battle-Company, one Tactical reserve, one Assault Company and one Devastator Company, that will not do. Factional power blocs and cliques have become too entrenched in the ranks; we need to shake them up. During the fighting Company morale was paramount but now we need to restructure ourselves completely."

Phalros eyed him and said, "Only a Chapter Master can authorise such radical changes."

Toran nodded and said, "So we concluded, but we cannot appoint a new Chapter Master without an official election. Our traditions are adamant that the Captains have the right to elect any one of their number to the office of Chapter Master but only by a majority vote, including the heads of every speciality."

"You know what that means," Hakulo stated.

Phalros agreed, "I concur, this must be done."

"Then we united in this decision?" Toran asked.

Phalros confirmed, "Absolutely, there can be no doubt. None can question that this is the correct choice."

Toran nodded and then raised his voice to shout, "You can come in now!"

As the echoes faded the far doors opened, revealing a quartet of Astartes. It was Toran's command squad, Brothers Furion, Novak, Persion and Jediah. They walked in their pale blue robes, their scars laid bare for all to see, yet their heads were held high. Toran looked upon his comrades and felt pride stir in his hearts, these Brothers had stood with him through the worst of times, never faltering or doubting his course. They were the finest warriors he had ever known and he was humbled to be among such heroes.

The squad pulled up and snapped to attention, Jediah slightly slowed by his injuries, given that he was an Astartes that spoke volumes as to their extent. Toran looked upon them and said, "Brothers, we welcome you, there are matters of great import to discuss and we turn to you to resolve them."

Furion looked at the Captains and said, "We stand ready to serve."

Phalros accepted this and said, "I have heard of the recent calamities and the darkness that almost consumed us. Every Brother who stood true deserves praise and laurels will come in time, but first we must address the vexing issues that plague us."

"Permission to speak freely," Furion requested.

"For you," Toran replied, "Always."

Furion stated, "The prisoners, I know many call for their heads but I must reiterate once more the need for a fair trial. No matter their crimes, to kill them out of hand…"

"No," Hakulo interrupted, "We do not speak of them, not yet anyway."

"The Apothecaries," Persion ventured, "Their deviant experiments…"

"No," Phalros cut in, "Not them either."

"The Primarch…" Novak mused.

"Let me stop your guessing," Toran said suppressing a smile, "We are here to set right the most glaring omission from our order. The Chaplaincy, we are without any Chaplains."

Phalros lifted his voice and declared, "Brother Furion, step forth!"

Furion's eyes widened but he obeyed. He looked uncertain and inquired, "Captains?"

Toran tried to keep his face solemn as he said, "Furion, you have proven yourself stalwart and true, you have been our beacon of righteousness in an eclipse of evil. You have been more than our strong right arm you have been the embodiment of our resolution and purity. Even when darkness engulfed us, you showed the way, never letting us set so much as foot upon the slippery slope of Heresy."

Hakulo took over the announcement and said, "In full accord, we have determined that you shall take up the Rosarius and Crozius. Henceforth you shall be known to one and all, as Chaplain Furion."

Wide smiles erupted all over the squad as everybody heard the news, even Jediah revealing a rare twitch of his lip. Toran himself couldn't keep from grinning at Furion's elevation and the bestowment of a rank that was most assuredly deserved. Everybody seemed jubilant, save one, Furion himself who raised his hands and said, "Regrettably I cannot accept."

Of all the responses Toran was expecting that had most definitively not been one and he spluttered, "What?! Why not?"

As baffled expression spread Furion explained, "You seem to have forgotten that I once trained to be a Chaplain and I was rejected."

"By Samect," Phalros stated, "Worst decision he ever made. Perhaps his ego would have been punctured were you at his side; you might have prevented all of this bloodshed."

Furion shook his head and said, "You don't understand, that decision made me who I am. Being rejected showed me that there are blemishes upon my soul, impurities in my hearts. You seem to think me some flawless paragon, but nothing could be further from the truth. I struggle every day with my imperfections, to rise above my faults. I know my hearts and I am the lowliest of us all. It is not my place to stand above anyone else, I am not worthy."

Toran disagreed completely and urged "But it has to be you, I could think of none other who could serve. You have ever been with me, reminding me to do what is right. I cannot imagine the Marine I would have become without you in my life. He is a stranger to me, callow, base and ignoble."

"Toran's right," Persion declared, "I've known you longer than anyone else and you've always urged us to be better, to be the best versions of ourselves. You taught us not to hold ourselves above the common man and that we should never take enjoyment in pain and killing."

"Except for Jediah," Novak muttered under his breath.

"Except for Jediah," Persion hastily glossed over, "You are what the Chaplains should have been."

Hakulo agreed, "This war began in the Chaplaincy, their insistence on Emperor-Worship, their need to preach to the masses. The embers of corruption smouldered long before Lessall came along; he merely poured Promethium onto the fire. We ask you to put it out, to smoother the embers entirely."

Furion hesitated and said, "But there are rituals and ceremonies to be undertaken."

Phalros declared, "You've had the training, you already know the litanies and sacraments. Yet as an outsider, you can see what is pure and what is not. You can examine every aspect of our philosophies and doctrines, excise what is rotten and leave behind only that which is pure. In time other Chaplains will be found but you will be the first, you can set the tone of all that is to follow."

Toran nodded and said, "Furion, we do not ask you to lord over others as Samect did, we ask you to stand beside us, to place yourself into the service of all Storm Heralds. This Chapter stands upon the cusp of immense change but for good or ill, I cannot say. Without clear guidance we will stray ever further into darkness. I can't stop it alone; I can't do this without you."

Furion was silent for a long moment, his face unreadable. Toran held his breath until Furion finally declared, "You are wiser than you know and I am proud to have watched you grow into such a fine leader. So shall it be, I shall dedicate myself anew to the service of all Storm Heralds and Him on Terra. Not as a leader but as a humble guide, as a Chaplain."

Now cheers did erupt and everybody broke formation to slap Furion on the shoulders, congratulating him loudly. Everybody was jubilant and they cheered their Brother's elevation.

Persion called out, "None could be more deserving."

Novak grinned and cheekily quipped, "Just imagine, you don't have to ask permission to speak any more!"

Even Jediah remarked, "A skull-helm would suit you."

Furion however raised his hands for quiet and said, "Not yet, I still have to pass the trials."

An abrupt silence fell and Toran was confused as he stuttered, "What… what trials?"

Furion sighed, "You didn't bother to review the rites of investiture, did you?"

"Well no," Hakulo confessed, "We thought we could dispense with all that."

Furion rubbed his eyes and said, "No, we must do this properly or not at all. One cannot just pick up a Crozius, it must be taken in a test of strength and purity. Before one can become a Chaplain one must first face the Emperor's judgement, in the Hall of Tempests."


	44. Chapter 44

**Domus Discordia Chapter 44**

Deep below the Fortress-Monastery there was an immense spherical cavern, filled with darkness and the sounds of dripping waters. In that space floated servo-skulls, bearing votive electro-candles upon their polished heads. They did nothing to illuminate the space however, merely serving to create flickering motes of light and jumping shadows. Yet those shadows hid something vast and sinister, concealing strange devices that covered every inch of the walls. These had been preserved only by millennia of mindlessly repeated rituals, for the secrets of their operation had long since been forgotten.

At the exact centre of the sphere was a large stone pyramid. It was formed as a ziggurat, with many levels that were cut through with ascending stairs. This pyramid had no foundations or supports, it merely floated in mid-air, suspended by long-forgotten sciences. To look upon it was to instantly know that a single misplaced step would spell certain death. An instinctive response, born from mankind's most primal fears and deepest race memories.

Across from that pyramid was a small aperture, lined with a stone arch under which Furion knelt with his eyes closed. Around him serf clerics were anointing his naked form with sacred unguents and sprinkling his flesh with blessed waters from silver thuribles. Ceaseless chanting in High Gothic was being uttered by a pair of blind clerics, who stood with hands clasped before them, seemingly oblivious to all that occurred. One final serf bore a stone cup in his hands, filled with a turgid venom.

Furion had been kneeling here for hours, edifying himself for what was to come. He was readying his soul for the trials ahead, steeling himself for the burden that was to be placed upon his shoulders. Unfortunately his mediations were interrupted by the sound approaching feet and the voice of Persion calling, "I have two questions: what is this place and why have I never heard of it?"

Furion didn't open his eyes as he calmly replied, "This is the Hall of Tempests, the pilgrimage that all Chaplains must undertake."

The voice of Novak interjected, "Doesn't look like a hall."

"It is what it is," Furion stated, "Here one's spirit is laid bare before the Emperor and the worthiness of the heart is judged."

Persion didn't sound impressed as he said, "So what does it actually involve?"

Furion explained, "Sacred Crozius' are stored on that pyramid, the trial is for the questor to walk over there and pick one up."

Jediah's voice arose, "I don't see any bridges."

Furion answered with the ritual words, "If the questor's hearts are pure and his faith unyielding then the Emperor shall provide a way."

"A miracle?" Persion pondered sounding rather dubious. Furion privately agreed for he had never counted upon divine intervention. The Emperor had gifted them with enhanced bodies, arms and armour, that was miracle enough for Furion.

Suddenly Novak's voice asserted, "It's a sustained repulsor-beam, like a grav-lift but projected horizontally across the void."

Silence fell for long seconds and then Persion said, "How the hell did you know that?"

Novak sounded sheepish as he said, "I once overhead Techmarine Hevostan lamenting that they couldn't make these anymore."

Furion almost smiled, for he knew despite an irreverent attitude Novak was far from stupid, a shame really, he could have gone far with such a mind. Perhaps when Furion was a Chaplain he would do something about that, but then he chided himself for his impious thought, he had to focus. Meanwhile Persion mused, "So you walk over there, on an invisible bridge and pick up a Crozius, doesn't sound very hard."

Furion corrected him, "The devices on the walls create a simulated tempest. It grows progressively worse as one ascends. With every step the questor is tested, how far they can climb is held to be the mark of their purity. The Crozius' are arranged in order of holiness and potency, the higher one climbs the more blessed the weapons become."

There was a thoughtful silence and then Novak said, "Wouldn't it be simpler to do this with the real Emperor's Storm?"

"The Emperor's Storm was not held to be sufficiently challenging," Furion answered.

A new voice arose, Captain Toran's as he mused, "I do believe that's the first time I have ever heard anyone say the Emperor's Storm is not challenging."

Furion's eyes opened now and he shook off the serfs as he stood up. He saw Toran looking out into the dark and said, "Thank you for coming to bear witness."

Toran responded, "We are honoured to be here."

Furion gazed outwards and remarked solemnly, "I have stood in this spot before, the day Samect told me I was to be denied the test. The darkest day of my life, I am glad to have steadfast friends with me this time."

Together they moved to the edge of the black abyss and looked out. Everybody was staring at the distant pyramid and Persion inquired, "How far did Samect get in his trial?"

"There are five levels and he made the third," Furion replied, "I intend to do better."

With that Furion took up the stone cup and gulped down its bitter contents. He thrust it back into the waiting serf's hands and then before he could change his mind he stepped out into nothingness. For a heart wrenching second his foot fell into the dark abyss but then he struck something hard and unyielding. His eyes told him nothing was under him but his feet felt like they were standing upon solid rock. Furion took another step and another, crossing the infinite black as his companions shrank behind him.

Suddenly a fierce cramp seized his stomach and threads of fire wormed into his limbs. It was the noxious venom he had just ingested, burning in his guts and making his head swim. Already his transhuman organs had sprung into action, fighting to cleanse his body of toxins. That they could remove the venom was not in doubt, but the process would be agonising, this trial would test him inside and out.

Furion staggered on another step but then a fierce wind arose, catching him off-balance. He crashed down to his hands and knees, clinging to the invisible bridge to stop himself falling into the abyss. The wind howled in his ears and drowned out his thoughts, pulling and tugging at him one second then twisting and trying to blow him away the next. Furion forgot all else and focussed only upon the now, his mind consumed by the single thought of moving his hands forward and then his knees. Over and over he did this, feeling his limbs burning and his body being battered by the wind. This was more than a test of fortitude it was testing his soul, forcing him to confront his own weakness and embrace the fire in his hearts. Only his faith could sustain him through such a trial.

Furion did not know how long he crawled over the abyss but suddenly his hand encountered a rough stone step. He looked up and found he was at the base of the pyramid, at the foot of the stairs. Resolutely Furion pulled himself up but the second he did so a wall of water fell from on high. It was more than a shower of rain; it was a monsoon, smothering him from head to toe. The howling wind persisted, causing the water to cling to his skin and drenching him from head to toe.

Furion gritted his teeth and pressed on, climbing the steps hand over hand. Soon he approached a small alcove, within which lay a golden Crozius but he ignored it. This was only the first level and no Astartes would ever consider stopping at the first mark. Limbs burning with venom, battered by wind and rain Furion pressed on, determined to prove his worth, to himself and unto the Emperor.

Soon Furion reached the second level, here the soul was tested by the temptation to pick up a Crozius and end the trial. Yet no questor would countenance such a choice, it would take far greater torments than this to dissuade a potential Chaplain. So he continued on, passing more alcoves with Crozius' inside. As he climbed the temperature suddenly dropped, plummeting to sub-zero conditions in seconds. The water coating him turned to sheets of ice and Furion felt the wet skin of his hands and knees freezing to the steps. He tugged at his arms but was stuck solid, unable to move. Furiously he yanked at his limbs but could not budge an inch, the ice bonding him to the steps.

Furion gritted his teeth and focussed all his strength, then heaved upwards, ripping the skin away from his hands. Blood flowed freely but Furion pressed on, tearing and gouging his hands with every step. He was forced to discard all other thoughts and concerns, there was only the climb now, it was the only thing that existed. Agonisingly slowly Furion ascended, freezing without, burning within and bleeding profusely but he continued, he had to complete his task, the Emperor demanded it.

When Furion reached the third level a giant hand unexpectedly pressed down upon him, a concentrated grav-field crushing him into the freezing steps. Here Furion almost faltered, his spirit yearning to reach out and take a Crozius, to end this torment but he refused. He knew that the third level was where Samect had stopped and Furion would not be counted alongside the likes of him. Samect's actions had led to the death of Bylan, poor trusting Bylan. For his memory, Furion would carry on, no matter what.

Inch by inch Furion dragged himself upwards, ripping the skin off his chest as he pulled his bleeding body up the next step. The world was going dark now as the environment battered him senseless and the venom clawed at his vitality. But he forced his limbs to keep moving, no matter how much they protested. Yet nothing he did could dispel the fact that his head was swimming and he couldn't feel his extremities. The gravity was forcing the blood from his head, he couldn't see anymore, he couldn't even think.

Somehow Furion reached the fourth level but the second he did so arcs of lightning leapt from the stone and earthed themselves in his flesh. Pain amplifiers, buried in the stonework, set to levels that would kill a mortal man. Furion could not hold back a scream as unfathomable agonies surged and swept him down into the pits of unconsciousness.

His head fell to the cold, hard steps, yet it did not make contact.

An instant before his head touched stone, a firm grip caught his shoulder and heaved him upwards. Furion felt himself being lifted by strong hands and a voice cried aloud, "+Hold on to me Brother, don't let go!+"

Furion couldn't see a thing but he clung to the sound like it was a lifeline.

"+Stay with me!+" the voice rang in Furion's ears as he felt himself being hoisted upright, "+We can make it!+"

Blinded and incoherent Furion felt himself being pulled up the last steps, agony spiking in his legs as lightning, cold, gravity and venom violated his flesh. Step by agonising step, inch by painful inch, the pair climbed higher and higher. Then Furion tripped on an icy step and he fell forward, but as he did so his bloody hand flashed out and closed around something hard and metallic.

Instantly the tempest ceased, leaving a stunning silence behind. Furion crashed onto the wet steps and realised that he was at the very top of the pyramid, at the zenith of the climb. Furion lifted a bloodied hand and peered around but was dumbfounded to see that he was alone, there was no one else present. As warmth crept back into his limbs Furion lifted his hand and saw that clenched in his grip was a golden Crozius. It was a relic of surpassing craftsmanship and beauty, with a spread-winged eagle for a head that clenched lightning bolts in its claws. Furion's eye travelled the length of the weapon and he saw a name engraved on the haft: 'Storm-Heart.'

Furion could not explain what had happened, he was certain that another soul had helped him, but there was no evidence to be seen. He had never believed in divine intervention, not as the Ecclesiarchy Priests would have it, but right now he was not so certain in that conviction. Furion gripped the relic tightly and closed his eyes as he whispered, "Thank you my Emperor and my thanks to you as well… Bylan."


	45. Chapter 45

**Domus Discordia Chapter 45**

The grand council chamber had witnessed history unfolding and in recent times it had been tragic indeed. Treachery, betrayal, heresy and death had all played out to their inescapable conclusions here, yet at last the chamber was being put to its proper purpose. Finally it was to host unity and rejuvenation, as it should always have done.

Toran reflected upon this as he sat in the circle of chairs, thinking upon all the past and the future. He was clad in his robes of office but bore his sword, as was traditional. He and the other Masters had all agreed that the rebuilding of the Chapter must be done properly, in full accord with tradition and the Lex Imperialis.

Toran looked across a circle of chairs, half of them empty. Directly across from him was Eighth Captain Hakulo, with his power spear by his side and Ninth Captain Phalros who had a Plasteel gauntlet on his hand, an actual powerfist being too cumbersome to bear without his power armour. These were the surviving Captains of the Storm Heralds, who in the absence of a Chapter Master would vote to determine their course. Yet they were not alone, for the other Masters also had the right to have their say.

The Forgemaster was incapable of leaving his sacred communion with the Machine Spirits of the Fortress-Monastery, so had sent an equerry, Techmarine Vorgal. The Techmarines had sat out much of the fighting and so had made it know they would abstain from interfering, they were only here to satisfy tradition. A few empty chairs down from him sat the white-robed form of Apothecary Memnos, a much more controversial appointment. Tradition demanded that someone speak for the Apothecaries, so Memnos was here on sufferance. Yet he looked distant and thoughtful, barely paying attention at all.

In complete contrast the seat of the Chaplains was being occupied by Furion, in coarse black robes. Furion bore his new Crozius with pride, claiming it was a gift and a blessing in equal measure. Toran didn't know what that meant but he knew that Furion's armour had presented a more vexing problem. The serf-artisans had tried to assign him one of the relic suits from the Chaplaincies' sequestered vaults, but the giant Astartes had simply been too big to fit into any of them. In the end they had been forced to retrieve his venerable Mark III plate, for consecration and repainting. It seemed his familiar silhouette would not change so much after all.

The last Master present was Chief Librarian Echeb. Many in the ranks resented Echeb but he seemed not care, holding himself aloof with unflappable dignity. In the absence of a Chapter Master Echeb was acting as chairman, an unsettling development but as the only actual Chief of his order present, tradition gave him the right. Nobody was happy but tradition was tradition and now was not the time to be arguing petty details.

Toran's attention was dragged back to the meeting and realised his mind had been wandering. Solemnly Echeb was saying, "If we are in agreement, it shall be put to the vote."

Toran saw Phalros and Hakulo each clasp one open hand over the other fist, the traditional vote for yes. Furion joined them and Echeb too; however Memnos and Techmarine Vorgal hid their eyes behind their palms, the signs of abstaining. Realising they were waiting for him, Toran spent a second recalling the last few minutes of talk, then he hurriedly clasped his hand over his fist in agreement.

"It is done," Echeb proclaimed then lifted his head and cried, "Call forth Nimodes!"

The cry rang in the council chamber and then was answered by the ringing of boots. In moments Nimodes approached the Masters, his robes were plain but his bearing proud and his head held high. Nimodes drew up to the circle of chairs and then stood at full attention as he called, "Masters, I await your decision."

As chairman it fell to Echeb to pronounce, "Brother-Commander Nimodes, you have served with distinction and valour. Your loyalty and bravery are beyond question as is your devotion to the Scout-Novices and neophytes. This Chapter is currently lacking a Master of Recruits and it has been decided that you shall be appointed to the rank. If you accept this office then the future of this Chapter will rest in your hands. Do you agree to bear this burden and swear to serve to the fullest of your abilities?"

Nimodes replied confidently, "So I swear."

Formally Echeb declared, "Be welcome among us, Tenth-Captain Nimodes, Master of Recruits."

Nimodes bowed low but then Hakulo cried, "Well don't just stand there, pull up a seat!"

Captain Nimodes grinned and moved to sit down, he didn't look surprised though, for everybody knew this was a foregone conclusion. They had all agreed upon it much earlier, this was merely a formal stamp to officially seal the appointment.

Unfortunately Toran knew that what was to come next was far more contentious. Echeb moved the meeting on saying, "Our next order of business to address the gaps in our ranks."

Furion spoke then, "I must caution against hasty reform, wide-sweeping changes will degrade morale in the ranks."

Phalros shook his head saying, "But we must, our order of battle is in tatters. We must reorganise now or waste years rebuilding, when we should be fighting the Emperor's wars."

Toran elaborated, "We have fifty-six First Company veterans and three hundred and eight line-Initiates from our side. We also discovered a score of Brothers locked up in the barracks of Fifth and Sixth Companies, who refused to serve the True Believers. That is enough warriors to comprise three full Battle-Companies, if we break up the Reserves."

Nimodes tapped his chin thoughtfully and remarked, "A Battle-Company is a fully-operational unit, capable of acting independently without assistance. In conjunction with our fleet assets and vehicle-pool, scouts and veterans, we could be viable for combat within a month, not years. We can make a Second, a Third and a Fourth Company out of the ramshackle remnants we currently have."

Furion sighed, "But if we are to elevate a new leader, that will leave us short one Captain."

Hakulo smirked and said, "What about Terminator Sergeant Orath?"

"No!" barked Nimodes suddenly, making Toran blink in surprise at his vehemence.

Hakulo looked surprised and asked, "Why not?"

"Without meaning to slur his name, Orath is not suited to being a Captain," Nimodes stated, "A peerless warrior, but he lacks concern for the well-being of his Marines. He has no respect for lower ranks, especially scouts."

"Now see here," Hakulo spat.

Yet Echeb interjected, "I have weighed Orath's hearts and while he is suited perfectly for the role he already plays he does not consider the wider picture, as a Captain must. A superlative warrior like him belongs at the front but a Captain, he is not. The very traits that make him so formidable in the field rule him out as a Master."

Thoughtfully Toran ventured, "What about Sergeant Cyvo?"

"Cyvo of the Seventh?" Hakulo said cautiously, "Rather young isn't he?"

"Wasn't I?" Toran countered with a grin.

"He is more than competent and commands the respect of the Seventh," Nimodes stated, "The Initiates would gladly follow such a Marine."

Phalros rubbed his chin and said, "Maybe, but a Veteran would have more experience."

However Furion argued, "We are committed to a path of upheaval and the ranks will be greatly troubled by it. To appoint a lauded veteran says we impose these changes upon our Chapter, but to raise up a humble Brother sends a message that we Masters are not excluding ourselves from this reform. None can be exempted, not even us."

"Very wise," Phalros concurred, "Yet I must insist that Cyvo is tutored under one of us for a time, until he is ready."

Firmly Echeb declared "We shall put it to a vote."

Heads nodded and then the vote was taken. Toran, Phalros, Nimodes, Furion and Echeb voted yes, while Memnos and Techmarine Vorgal abstained. Only Hakulo crossed his forearms in an x-shape, the traditional no vote.

Echeb declared, "The ayes have it, Cyvo will become a Captain, in due time."

Phalros stated, "I recommend to this council that Cyvo be first to take his pick of Seventh Company and use it to form the nucleus of a new Second Company. The First shall remain under the purview of the Chapter Master until our numbers increase. Hakulo, I nominate you for Fourth Captain while I take over as Third."

It took Toran a moment to follow the implications and then he spluttered, "Wait, what?! Third Company… then what am I to do?!"

Everybody glanced at each other, suppressing grins and Nimodes remarked, "Still not too quick on the uptake. We all agreed earlier that you should inherit Gorgall's post."

"Me?!" Toran yelled practically leaping out of his chair, "You seek to crown me Chapter Master?!"

Furion smiled widely as he explained, "We all support this nomination, nobody has done more to preserve our Chapter, to lead us through the dark times. You led us through the worst of battles, you deserve to be Chapter Master."

Toran was flummoxed and gasped, "You cannot be serious. Hakulo you support this?"

"Leave me out of this," Hakulo scoffed, "I don't want the job, its all politics and paperwork. It was Furion who suggested this; I think he wants payback for you forcing him to become a Chaplain."

Everybody seemed certain this was right but Toran's mind was whirling. In his soul thoughts arose of the glory of being Chapter Master, of the power. He could ascend to the apex of authority, the rank all neophytes secretly dreamed about. He could make his will a reality with but a word and command armies across the stars. Chapter Master Toran, his soul whispered, he could do anything with such authority. But then Toran remembered the last time he had thought this way. The overconfidence that had seen him lead his Marines into a bloodbath, of the piles of dead it had created.

Toran's delusions shattered instantly and he barked, "I cannot accept for I would be a poor Chapter Master."

Phalros exhaled loudly and said, "Now is not the time for humility, we have already agreed."

Yet Toran rebuked them, "As much as it pains me, I have been a divisive figure in this Chapter. All I have ever done is to make enemies."

Hakulos sneered. "Lessall and Samect…"

"Not just that," Toran overrode him, "I have made mistakes. I did not see this war coming and I am as much to blame as any other. I do not deserve this praise; I did not turn the tide of battle, that was Hakulo. I did not break the True Believers, that was Ajax."

Furion pressed, "It was your idea…"

"Storm Heralds died by my hand!" Toran cried trying to make them understand, "Not just True Believers. Brothers died because of my mistakes and if I command, then all I can do is drive our divisions even deeper. None can lead whom has shed the blood of their Brothers, we cannot be commanded by a kin-slayer! We must have a pure leader, one unsullied by kin-strife and bloody feud!"

Echeb raised an eyebrow and said, "You don't mean…"

Toran declared, "There is only one amongst us who can truly claim to have never raised a hand against his own blood. Only one who can unite us, when any other would tear us apart. We need a pure Chapter Master, free of strife and above reproach; we need Phalros to lead us!"

Phalros looked stunned and gasped, "What are you saying?"

"I am not the right choice," Toran avowed, then he stood up and drew his blade. He stepped forward and reversed his sword, then laid it at Phalros' feet proclaiming, "I nominate Phalros, for Chapter Master!"

There was a scrape of a chair and then Nimodes stood up, he drew a combat blade before placing it at Phalros' feet saying, "I second that, our first choice was made in haste. Toran should remain Third Captain, Phalros is the wiser option."

Furion joined them, laying his Crozius beside the blades saying, "It seems I erred, Phalros alone retains the purity we have lost, he must lead."

Then Hakulo stood up, he took his spear and laid it before Phalros declaring, "I can't think of anyone better to chair meetings and battle mountains of paperwork. Phalros has my vote!"

Memnos and Vorgal joined them silently and then last of all Echeb stood up. He laid his staff at Phalros' feet and then took to one knee. All joined him, kneeling to the stunned officer as Echeb proclaimed, "The vote is cast and it is unanimous. All hail our new Chapter Master: Phalros the Pure!"


	46. Chapter 46

**Domus Discordia Chapter 46**

Noise filled the Reclusiam, the chatter of many voices, deep as only Transhumans could be. The source of these voices were the gathered ranks of the Storm Heralds, arranged in their new Company ranks. In three square blocks they stood, on either side of the long nave, Second, Third and Fourth Company's all waiting in their ceremonial robes. Their faces bore the scars of recent events, physical and spiritual, for they had seen woe and discord in abundance yet their zeal was undiminished.

Along with them was an assortment of other Storm Heralds; pilots, drivers, lesser Techmarines and the entire Librarian contingent. Most of the Dreadnoughts were here too, their reactors generating a subliminal thrum and their bulk filling most of the empty space reserved for the lost Companies. Only the fleet crews were absent, for no Chapter would ever allow its defences to be dropped or its orbital space to go unwatched, not even for a moment.

Standing on the dais before the golden arch Toran looked over the assembled ranks and felt his hearts lift. Despite all that had occurred recently the Chapter remained strong, these Brothers remained stalwart and they had lost none of their fervour. From this seed the Storm Heralds would grow, Toran thought, better and nobler than they had been before. His eye passed to the side, where his fellow Captains and Masters were stood beside him. Hakulo, Nimodes, Cyvo, Furion, Echeb and by sufferance Memnos. Toran's eye settled upon the new Captain Cyvo, who looked bewildered by his new rank but proud and eager to prove himself.

Suddenly there was susurrus in the ranks, as all stiffened to attention. Toran stood proudly as a new figure appeared at the far end of the nave. It was Phalros, emerging with his head held high. The new Chapter Master had been invested that very morning, in accordance with all traditions and before the eyes of the Storm Heralds. Under the open sky and blazing sun he had sworn sacred oaths to Him on Terra, then been proclaimed sound in body by Memnos and mind by Echeb, before being presented with the laurels of command by the Equerry of the Techmarines and anointed by Chaplain Furion. Then as one every Brother had sworn fealty to the Storm Herald's twenty-sixth Chapter Master: Phalros the Pure.

Toran watched Phalros approaching, flanked by the sole surviving Honour Guard. Phalros suited his new status perfectly, his patrician features solemn and his senatorial mien bearing the mantle of leadership as if born to it. His robes were simple yet elegantly spun and an Adamantium gauntlet sat upon his right hand, symbolic of the revered relic Power Fist he had been granted on ascension.

Toran had never felt more certain that Phalros would be a far better Chapter Master than he ever could be. Noble, stern and respectful of tradition, while being pragmatic enough to make the hard choices. Toran knew he could never have satisfied this multitude of requirements; he could never have brought the unity and balance so desperately needed. His place was on the battlefield, making snap calls, not weighing ponderous matters of state.

Phalros passed before the gazes of the waiting crowds, then ascended to the dais. Under it were placed a pair of chairs, one plated in gold to represent the supremacy of the Emperor, the other silver to represent the devolved authority of the Chapter Master. Phalros settled into the silver chair and looked out at the crowd with a measured gaze.

After a moment Chaplain Furion cried, "All hail the Emperor and His anointed servant, Phalros!"

As one, hundreds of Transhuman voices bellowed, "Hail the Emperor and Phalros!"

Phalros accepted the acclaim graciously then spoke and his words carried effortlessly to all, "Welcome Brothers, be at ease. I thank you for your fealty and your faultless service. We have seen darkness beset the Storm Heralds on all sides but the dawn has come at last. One day we shall rise to new heights, united in our faith and purity. I wish this could be that day, I wish this was a day of rejoicing, but justice cannot be stayed."

Furion took his cue and cried, "Bring forth the first prisoners!"

From the end of the nave came seven prisoners. They had been granted coarse cilices to cover their nakedness but their wrists and ankles were bound with plasteel chains. They stumbled along, followed by Dreadnoughts Hibernia and Yellico, who kept them moving relentlessly.

These were the surviving Apothecaries, those who had sided with Lessall and Samect. They stumbled along with lowered gazes, as all around them the ranks hissed and growled threateningly. Toran sensed a dangerous current stirring in the ranks and had the Dreadnoughts not been here he was not sure the massed Astartes would not have torn the prisoners apart with their bare hands.

Slowly the prisoners approached, then stopped and waited. Furion proclaimed, "This court is now in session, may the Emperor grant us justice. These here before us stand accused of turning against their rightful lord and participating in the death of Gorgall. They also are accused of conducting Heretical experiments on the sacred gene-seed, resulting in three thousand, seven hundred and thirty counts of dishonourable murder as well as killing without the sanction of the Chapter or the Lex Imperialis."

Everybody knew that they were guilty but Phalros had to hear to their case. As the Chapter Master only he and he alone could judge their case and decide their sentence. Phalros opened his mouth but suddenly there was a stir and gasps arose in the ranks. Toran's eye flashed to the side and he was surprised to see Memnos stepping forward, moving to stand with the prisoners.

Phalros started and called in surprise, "Memnos, what are you doing?!"

Memnos lifted his head and uttered, "I plead guilty to participating in these crimes, I demand to be judged."

Nimodes interrupted to say, "Memnos, your sins were dire but at the last you stood with the righteous. You don't have to do this."

Memnos' face was as stone as he declared, "My fate shall be the same as theirs."

Astonished quiet fell and Phalros said, "Let it be known that none are above the Lex Imperialis. In accordance with Imperial law, are there any whom speak in your defence?"

Silence was the only reply so Phalros proclaimed, "The plea of guilty is recognised by the court. For your many crimes each of you most assuredly deserves dishonourable death and were it possible I would see you all burned at the stake and your gene-seed with you. Regrettably the Chapter yet requires your service, we cannot survive long without an Apothecary order and sending Brothers away to train with other Chapters would take too long. Therefore it is my judgement that your sentences shall be commuted."

A sudden angry mummer erupted in the crowd as voices were raised and the prisoners glanced up with hope in their eyes but Phalros rapped his gauntlet down loudly on his armrest and disabused them, "Do not think that your crimes are forgiven, for they are not. Your fetters shall be broken but your shackles will not be removed, they shall remain forever as marks of your dishonour. You shall bear the Chains of Shame to your dying day, so that all who look upon you will know of your disgrace and as a warning to the next generation of Apothecaries."

Some in the crowd actually winced at that, for this humiliation was harsh indeed. An Astartes was a proud creature, who fought for honour and glory. To strip an Astartes of his pride so was excruciating and Toran heard Nimodes mutter, "Kinder just to kill them."

Furion raised his voice and called, "Take them away, bring in the rest."

As the Apothecaries were marched away another, much larger group approached. This time under the stern visage of Ajax and Tonnant. These were the rest of the True Believers and among them Toran spied Wrethan, Tygra and Erathor, who had to be pushed in a wooden cart. Toran's eye settled on Wrethan and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of his cantankerous former Chaplain, bound and shackled so.

The group was led to trial with jeers and threats ringing loudly from the crowd. Once they stopped Furion called, "These here before us stand accused of rebellion against Terra, of murdering their rightful lord and killing fellow Storm Heralds."

Phalros imperiously called, "How do you plead?"

"Guilty!" called Wrethan, his voice clear and confident, containing no trace of deception or trickery. He sounded like a man who was happy to be here, eager to have his sentence pronounced. Many in the crowd muttered scornfully but Toran couldn't tear his eyes away from Wrethan, from the Chaplain who had been with him for so long. All their previous battles flashed in his mind and he could not square the gallant memory of Wrethan with the sight before him After all they had experienced together he couldn't believe Wrethan was welcoming his dishonourable execution without a fight.

It wasn't right.

Suddenly Toran stepped forward and said, "I would speak for the defence!"

A roar of denial arose from the crowd, angry protests as the Astartes yelled their disapproval. They sounded outraged, they sounded like they wanted blood and their roar filled the Reclusiam. But Echeb slammed his staff down and exclaimed, "Silence! Are we the Inquisition to condemn out of hand?! We are noble warriors and our traditions allow for a defence."

A resentful hush fell and Toran drew in a breath to state, "My lord, the plea is guilty but I ask for clemency in the sentence, I ask for honourable executions. Let their gene-seed be harvested, let their names be recorded for posterity."

Hakulo's voice arose, "Mercy for the likes of them, never!"

Yet Toran responded, "Did not the Apothecaries not receive the same?"

"Because they were useful," Hakulo spat.

"Is that the measure of justice?" Toran argued, "How useful someone is?"

"They are traitors!" Hakulo snarled, causing roars of approval from the crowd.

But Toran pleaded, "They were misguided and badly led but they never bent the knee to Chaos. Even at their worst they still acknowledged the rule of the Emperor. Their deaths are deserved but to destroy their legacy is too far. Let them die with honour."

"Never," Hakulo roared, "Burn the Heretics!"

Desperately Toran pleaded, "Are we completely without shame? Have we too not spilled our own blood?"

From the crowd a voice cried, "Burn the Heretics!"

Frantically Toran shouted "Do we embrace victor's justice? One rule for the victor and another for the loser?!"

Yet his words were drowned out as the crowd booed and jeered. Calls rang out, "Burn the Heretics! Burn the Heretics! Burn the Heretics!"

Over and over the crowd roared and the noise drowned out all else. But then Phalros slammed his gauntlet down hard, causing all eyes to turn to him as he cried, "Enough, Enough! you make this a farce! You sound like squabbling Inquisitors not noble Astartes!"

"But…" Hakulo said.

"I had no idea our standards had slipped so far into disrepute," Phalros overrode him firmly, "This Chapter is not above the Lex Imperialis. Imperial justice is many things, harsh, brutal and unforgiving but it is always impartial and always unprejudiced. It is clear to me that this court is neither of those things and since we cannot render justice, I declare this a mistrial."

Stunned silence fell over all as Phalros stated, "Since this court cannot deliver justice we must seek it from the Emperor himself. Therefore the accused shall throw themselves upon His mercy, by leaving this place and seeking out war across the stars."

The crowd gasped in shock and incredulous whispers rang, "A death oath. A Penitent Crusade."

Toran couldn't believe it either, he had never expected this. A penitent crusade was a near-certain death sentence but it was also a chance at redemption. To fall in battle against impossible odds was an honourable fate and in the slim chance that any survived such a quest then any and all past shames would be expunged.

Phalros lifted his voice and pronounced, "In His name you shall go forth from this place and seek out the forgotten and the helpless. Those who have been abandoned by the high and mighty, those with no one else to protect them. You shall not turn your gaze from the least of His subjects; you shall not scorn the weakest cry for aid. You shall claim no glory, win no honours, you shall seek only to serve until your shame is expunged. You shall do this until you have achieved some deed so noble that it earns His forgiveness or failing that until one hundred years have concluded."

Shocked silence filled the Reclusiam as all were rendered speechless by the verdict. Then Phalros slammed his gauntlet down and proclaimed, "In the name of Him on Terra, judgement is passed."


	47. Chapter 47

**Domus Discordia Chapter 47**

The Rhino rocked under him, the familiar growl of its engines as reassuring as his own twin heartbeats. Wrethan looked around its ergonomic interior; based on a design honed to perfection over ten thousand years and felt serenity fill his spirit. Wrethan was standing in the troop bay as the Rhino rumbled on, driving across the Fortress-Monastery towards the landing pads, where flights of Thunderhawks were waiting for them.

Wrethan was clad in a suit of power armour, not his familiar Chaplain's plate but a sound and strong Mark VII version. It felt odd to him but it had a strong spirit and a feisty zeal that earned his approval, he was sure in time that he and the armour would form a tight bond. The only thing that gave him pause was the lack of honours, purity seals or campaign badges. Such marks were a litany of an Astartes' deeds, proclamations of the glory one had won and a dire warning to foes of his deadly prowess. Wrethan's plate felt bare and naked without his tapestry of emblems, like he was a rookie on his first deployment. Yet it was unavoidable, the True Believers had sworn inviolable oaths to claim no glory or honours, so long as their penitent crusade endured.

The thought of that made Wrethan look upon his companions, Tygra and Erathor. Like him they had been fitted with armour, shorn of all honours. Yet unlike him they had been implanted with augmetic limbs, clicking whirring devices with exposed mechanisms, bones made of pistons and muscles formed of gears. Erathor was sitting on one of the Rhino's seats, still having trouble walking on his new legs; he looked up and inquired, "Do you know where they will send us?"

Wrethan thought about it and answered, "That is up to us, we are being given the freedom to direct ourselves. War consumes the galaxy, we could go anywhere."

Erathor looked at his hands and said, "It would be best not to stay too close to home, there is too much bad blood to risk running into our kin. It would be best if we leave the Saint Karyl Trail behind entirely. Perhaps we could head into Segmentum Tempestus or towards Terra to assist in securing the core worlds."

"What does it matter? Tygra snorted, "Any direction is as good as another. It's not like we're going to come back."

Erathor fixed him with a stare and growled, "You agreed to support my command of this Penitent Crusade. Don't start undermining me before we've even begun."

Tygra shook his head saying, "Don't be blind, this is still a death sentence. After one hundred years of war, there won't be any of us left to come home. Phalros wanted to get rid of us but didn't want blood on his hands; this is nothing but a tidy way to dispose of us."

Wrethan's ire stirred and he snarled, "Your lack of faith disturbs me, it is something we will discuss at length when we depart. Do not miss the opportunity before us."

Yet Tygra grumbled, "It's an opportunity to fall on some insignificant battlefield, without glory or honour."

"No," Wrethan rebuked him, "This is our redemption, ours and our Chapter's."

"We won't live to see redemption," Tygra snarled, "We will never again lay our eyes upon our home!"

Yet Wrethan firmly stated, "Then it is an opportunity to die being proud of ourselves, not ashamed. You know the conditions of our death oath; we shall be the shield of those with no other defence. We shall be the answer to the prayers of all those who cry out to the Emperor for deliverance, the last hope for the hopeless, the protectors of those souls abandoned by the high and mighty. This is a most worthy calling and I am reassured to know that our Chapter remains noble enough to grant us this boon."

Tygra fell silent and the rest of the journey passed without conversation. Soon the Rhino screeched to a halt and the ramp lowered. Wrethan led his companions out onto the ferrocrete landing pad, where flights of gunships and Thunderhawk transporters waited for them. Into those waiting gunships filed lines of Astartes; all those who had sworn to undertake the Penitent Crusade. There was no chatter or joy amongst them, they trudged up the ramps with heads held low, their blue and grey armour as blank as Wrethan's own.

Yet before one Thunderhawk Wrethan was surprised to see a small party waiting, all wearing armour that was festooned with laurels. It was Chapter Master Phalros with his Honour Guard and Captain Toran with his command squad. As the Rhino backed up to a waiting transporter Wrethan led his comrades up to them and bowed low saying, "Chapter Master."

Phalros looked down his nose at them and said, "Your forces are preparing to depart, I suggest you hurry. The Strike Cruiser Pax Mortis is at your disposal, on board you will find arms and munitions enough to sustain your crusade and there are serf-artisans to tend to your gear. I have permitted one Apothecary to accompany you, to ensure that you do not die too quickly and to retrieve the gene-seed of anyone whose death is deemed honourable enough to expunge their shame."

Wrethan was surprised and said, "Your generosity is boundless."

Phalros looked stern as he snapped, "I am not doing this for your sake but to redeem our Chapter."

Wrethan replied, "Nevertheless, we thank you for your largesse."

Phalros' stern visage cracked slightly and he said, "I intended to have you all executed without remorse, but when I heard our Brothers braying for your deaths like rabid dogs, my conviction turned to ashes. I looked upon our Chapter and I did not recognise it. We have become base and ignoble, we have lost some vital element of our spirit, we have forsaken our nobility. To kill you would have plunged us into a pit of darkness from which we would never return. This was the only way to redeem our Chapter's honour, as well as your own."

Wrethan bowed once more and said, "I have no doubt that you shall restore the Storm Heralds to their former glory but if I may crave your indulgence, I seek a moment alone with my former comrades."

Phalros nodded and moved off, while Erathor and Tygra stomped up the ramp loudly, resentment still simmering off the latter. Wrethan looked at his old comrades and took them in, each bearing terrible scars but they were all the more glorious for it. These were the greatest warriors Wrethan had ever known and he would treasure the memories of their time together for as long as he lived.

Wrethan looked at them each in turn, first at Furion in his blackened Mark III plate. It had been decorated with a winged skull upon his breastplate, to match the new skull-helm hanging at his belt and golden scriptures along the edges of the pauldrons. Wrethan felt a slight stirring of resentment, he and Furion had never been close, but he suppressed it. Then he spied the Crozius in Furion's hand and remarked, "Storm-Heart?"

Boldly Furion confirmed, "It was bestowed upon me by a higher power."

"Talk of divinity from you, miracles do abound," Wrethan commented, "Bear it well, for Storm-Heart is a most potent relic. It was borne by Charael, the first High Chaplain and Visionary of the Chapter. It holds many secrets, in time you will learn them."

Furion replied, "Fare thee well and may He guide your steps."

Wrethan nodded then said, "Watch Toran's back for me."

"Always," Furion replied with the faintest smile.

Then Persion spoke up to say, "No goodbyes for me?"

Wrethan smiled and uttered, "It seems I owe you an apology for all those reprimands. Had you not been so practised at breaking into vox-nets, this could have gone very differently."

Persion sadly replied, "I wish it hadn't been necessary."

"So do I" Wrethan replied forlornly.

Then Novak interjected, "Despite everything, I still hold out hope that you survive your crusade. If you do return someday, I would welcome it."

"Ah Novak," Wrethan sighed, "When will you stop hiding those brains and embrace your potential? That tongue of yours is the only thing holding you back."

"I shall work on it," Novak replied, "Come back to us alive."

Wrethan then turned to Jediah and stated, "I hear the monster survived another fight. But there's one thing I have to know: how did you best five Astartes single-handed?"

"I'm not telling," Jediah stated but then cracked a rare smirk, "I confess, I do like the awed looks I'm getting. But if you do come back, I will share my secret and that's a promise."

Then Wrethan faced Memnos, who looked quite different from the last time they had met. His armour had been adorned with plasteel chains, tiny grey links, bonded to the white ceramite plates. They started on the backs of his gauntlets and wrapped themselves around his forearms, expertly avoiding his Narthecium, until they terminated at his elbows. They left his hands free but none could look upon Memnos and not recognise the Chains of Shame. Yet Memnos still looked dejected and said, "I thought these would erase my guilt but it hasn't worked. I still see their faces, I hear their cries, they haunt me."

Sternly Wrethan extolled, "As they should. You knew what you were doing was wrong, a voice you did not recognise screamed at you to stop but you ignored it. You told yourself that your victims chose this fate; you pretended that there was no other choice. You closed your eyes, covered your ears and denied the truth in your hearts."

"They became nothing but numbers to me," Memnos confessed sounding utterly ashamed, "I cannot forget what I have done."

"Because you don't deserve to, neither of us does," Wrethan snarled, "There is no erasing what we have done."

"Then how do I go on?" Memnos pleaded.

"By remembering that you do not fight for yourself," Wrethan explained, "The Emperor's flock suffer even now, they cry out for aid. Dedicate yourself to them; give of yourself until your hearts break. Do not let any other pay for what you did and make your brethren understand that what they did was wrong. When they inevitably whisper of resuming their work, of restarting the visionary project, force them to see the suffering they unleashed."

Toran spoke up, "It seems you have had a revelation."

Wrethan looked at the young Captain, his protégé and ward. Only now did he truly grasp how proud he was of Toran, his closest Brother. The former Chaplain lowered his eyes and sighed, "To fight for the Emperor is to fight for humanity and to fight for humanity is to fight for the Emperor. I thought I understood those words, but only now do I see how wrong I was. It was a warning, telling me that I was on the wrong path. All my life I prepared for this war but when the horns of battle sounded I was standing on the wrong side."

Toran sounded sad as he suggested, "It's not too late, your redemption maybe out there somewhere."

Wrethan smiled sadly and said, "You give me hope, not for myself but for our Chapter. So long as Marines like you continue to march under the banner of the Storm Heralds then our ideals live. To serve with you all has been my highest honour and that I did not stand with you at the end shall ever be my greatest regret. Continue to fight for Him on Terra and know that a wretched fool is proud of you all."

Toran nodded and replied, "May victory follow in your wake and may the Emperor watch over you."

Wrethan smiled sadly at that, then turned and walked up the ramp of the waiting Thunderhawk. The command squad backed off as the landing pad erupted with the roars of building engines. One by one the gunships took off, taking the penitents away. Wrethan however paused at the top of the ramp and turned to look out, casting his eyes upon his comrades and searing the sight into his memory. They stood proudly, watching him in turn as the ramp closed, cutting off the sight with a wall of blank metal. As the Thunderhawk rocked and began to lift, Wrethan reached out and placed one hand upon the metal, silently wishing them well and knowing deep in his hearts that he would never lay eyes upon them again.

Then the gunship leapt away, taking him to the stars and whatever fate awaited him.


	48. Chapter 48

**Domus Discordia Chapter 48**

The chains wrapped around his wrists, a snaking line of plasteel links encircling his forearms. They had been bonded link by link to his armour, so that they would not restrict movement nor catch in the heat of battle. In a way they were a masterful piece of work, intricate and skilfully made, yet their purpose was undeniable, none could look upon him and not recognise his shame. Memnos knew that he would never be able to hide his disgrace but he no longer wanted to. Memnos had come to a certain understanding; he had come to accept his penance. He knew that he would never be able to forget what he had done, so he would not try. He had sworn to always remember the suffering he had inflicted, he had sworn that their memory would become his drive serve others.

Memnos was currently walking through the bowels of the Fortress-Monastery, but he was not alone. With him were the Chapter's Captains, Toran, Hakulo, Nimodes and Cyvo, accompanying Chapter Master Phalros on his journey. The group were escorting the Apothecary to his destination, though to support him or condemn him was unclear.

As they walked Hakulo was talking, "So Cyvo, how do you enjoy being a Captain?"

Hesitantly Cyvo replied, "It is an immense honour, yet quite a challenge. There is so much to learn, it is almost overwhelming."

Hakulo mirthfully jested, "Don't fret, if we let Toran here do it, how hard can it be?"

Toran rolled his organic eye and poked back, "Are you talking about me… Fourth Captain?"

"Urgh, why did it have to be Fourth?" Hakulo spat, "That was wretched Jossat's number."

Toran smiled warmly and replied, "I am confident that you shall make it a symbol to be respected once more."

Nimodes sighed in exasperation and changed the subject, "How is Second Company shaping up?"

Cyvo explained, "It is a difficult change, losing Maxitio was hard. Yet my Initiates are eager to prove themselves, they just need some time to adapt to their new situation."

Nimodes looked thoughtful and said, "Perhaps you should give them something to unite behind, a symbol or a rallying cry."

"Heroes of the Second," Cyvo mused thoughtfully, "Hungry for war and hard to kill… it works."

At that point Phalros stated, "I shall be keeping the Second close until they are ready, yet we cannot linger long. Time does not favour us so Third and Fourth Companies must deploy as soon as possible. War rages across the stars, even the Saint Karyl Trail is not free from strife. Rebellions, Chaos incursions and Xenos attacks are everywhere. We must respond with full fury, it is our duty to keep this vital Warp Route open."

Thoughtfully Memnos pointed out, "Our numbers are badly depleted and the Scout Company can only train new initiates so fast. Even in the best case, it will be a century before we are back to full strength; we will be badly overstretched in the coming years."

Hakulo bristled at the Apothecary daring to speak but Toran jumped in to say, "We can't change that but we still have our strength and our weapons. We will meet the Emperor's enemies head-on and show them that we are yet a power to be reckoned with."

Hakulo grumbled, "We would be significantly more powerful had we not sent a Strike Cruiser away."

Phalros' face was stony as he responded, "Do you doubt the need?"

Hakulo paused for a second then lowered his eyes said, "No my lord, you made the right decision."

Phalros accepted the submission but did not rub it in as he explained, "We are still well-endowed with ships, I shall be scattering the fleet far and wide to hunt down raiders and pirates. Fourth Company shall take the Battlebarge Thunderlord to secure the mining worlds around Forgeworld Crux Lapis. The Tech-priests are reluctant to dispatch their forces while their own dominions are at risk. We can't allow that, the Imperium desperately needs their armies, especially the Legio Astraman and the Knights of San Grael. Meanwhile Third Company shall take the Thunderchild and begin a campaign to liberate embattled worlds. I shall be assigning First Company warriors to support you both; we have countless worlds to save and no time at all to do it."

Memnos dared to ask, "Then you intend to continue Gorgall's policy of cooperation?"

Phalros paused then said, "Not exactly, Gorgall was admirable in many ways but his flaw was his moderation. He tried too hard to satisfy everybody, to appease Lessall and Samect. Had he brooked no dissent in our ranks then maybe history would have been different. Henceforth I intend to suffer no hint of vacillation or diffidence in the performance of our duties. Under my rule the Storm Heralds shall become zealous and fanatical in our support of Terra, in executing the Living Primarch's will. We shall not hesitate to spill our last drop of blood, to serve our gene-father and Him on Terra."

Memnos stopped walking and said, "Then it is even more important that I do this."

Toran looked up, at the doors to the Primus-Apothecarion, before which they were stood and asked, "You are sure you don't want us to come with you?"

Memnos shook his head and explained, "It has to be me. My order does not understand the reasons for their punishment, they think that they did nothing wrong. Wrethan was right about one thing, if I do not force them to grasp the magnitude of their crimes then the rot will persist. A few centuries from now, somebody will whisper that they should try again, that the visionary project should be restarted. We cannot allow that, it must be stopped, here and now."

"How do you intend to proceed?" Hakulo inquired.

"With fire," Memnos answered grimly.

"It seems you have corrected your ways," Phalros stated, "We cannot forgive nor forget, but perhaps your future is not honourless after all."

At that Memnos bowed and took his leave, marching into the Primus-Apothecarion. He passed through the sterilising mists and emerged into the wide arena of the central laboratorium. Once inside he found himself confronted by a crowd of serf-medicaes as well as his fellow six Apothecaries.

These warrior-healers were clad in their white armour, each adorned with the Chains of Shame but otherwise they could not have looked more different to Memnos. Their unhelmed faces bore no trace of humility or contrition, their heads were held high and their expressions were filled with bitterness. Memnos could see it in their eyes, their resentment and their umbrage. They did not understand why they were being punished; they did not believe that they had done anything wrong. Memnos had expected no less, their hypno-indoctrination was a formidable barrier. It was intended to erect mighty walls around their minds, keeping doubt and hesitation at bay. He had to change that, he had to make sure they never thought of repeating their crimes. Yet to break through those walls first required a massive shock.

Memnos saw all eyes turn to him as he marched past but he ignored them. He strode up to the blank door leading to the secret Apothecarion where a gaggle of serfs awaited him, one of them bearing a flamer. Memnos took up the weapon and then stomped into the place where he had forsaken his honour. Memnos traversed the first antechamber, heading deeper into the suite where the secret work had been conducted. The area was deserted save for the customary servo-skulls and cyber cherubs, all others being evacuated earlier. The sight caused his memories to replay all the times he had walked these halls, all the hours he had spent poring over the intricacies of genic research while labouring upon arcane gene-tech. He saw now that the work had consumed his mind, an obsession that had blinded him to all else and turned him from his duty. So much pain, so many deaths, all by his hand and the thought made his grip on the flamer tighten with self-loathing.

Memnos stopped at the door to one of the implantation chambers, where the poisoned gene-seed had been sown into helpless children. Here Memnos paused and lit the pilot light on the flamer, then donned his helm and sealed the rebreather. Memnos pointed the weapon into the chamber, but paused for a second as the enormity of what he was about to do sank in. Despite everything this project had been intended to safeguard the Chapter against a hostile universe, but if he went through with this he was plunging the Storm Heralds into an uncertain future. For a moment Memnos grappled with himself, but then he remembered Furion's words and his conviction hardened. There was no denying it, if the Storm Heralds approved of abominations like this then they didn't deserve to survive. Memnos hissed, "Never again," then he squeezed the trigger.

Instantly a plume of burning promethium was ejected from the nozzle, bathing the room in roaring flames. Shrieking alarms lit and cyber-cherubs flitted about, wailing in distress as nozzles began to spray inert gases. Yet Memnos held the trigger down, filling the space with roaring flames that could not be extinguished. The conflagration spilled everywhere, consuming all and sweeping away the past with purifying flame.

Sure of his course Memnos went from room to room, laboratium to storage area, clinical space to recovery ward, burning all as he went. Memnos' armour shimmered and the plasteel chains glowed cherry-red as his plate's spirit shrieked heat warnings but he ignored it. His vision was obscured by smoke and his thermal mode was useless yet he pressed on, he did not need to see to complete his task. He burned the devices; he burned the cogitators and the chemical baths, the bubbling gestation chambers and the dissection gurneys. He left nothing but roaring flames in his wake, destroying two hundred years of labour in minutes.

Soon the chambers were filled with a raging inferno, fed by exploding chemicals and blazing promethium. Arcane devices collapsed in on themselves, altered organs boiled in their preservation fluids and meticulously kept records were incinerated. Memnos left nothing intact, he destroyed it all and he was glad to do so. Once the flames had spread to every corner Memnos left to return to the Primus Apothecarion, trailing thick smoke behind him. He sealed the thick fire-proof door, then wrenched off his helm as he turned to a serf snarling, "Weld this shut."

As a pair of serfs went to work Memnos looked upon his brethren. Confusion reigned now, mixed with disbelief. They had just seen two hundred years of work incinerated before their eyes, countless hours of intensive research and experimentation destroyed. They were aghast, they were outraged and appalled, their equilibrium was rocked to the core which meant Memnos could now ram his point home. The Apothecary turned to the last serf, who had a large augmetic focussing lens projecting from his left eye. Memnos had gone to immense trouble to find this one and he said, "Bring forth your tools."

Obediently the serf presented a micro-lathe and a las-etching tool. Memnos held out his arm, exposing his chains and the serf brought the tools to bear as his eye whirred and clicked, magnifying his vision to see in minuscule detail. As the confused Apothecaries looked on Memnos returned their stares, he needed them to understand why he had done this, he needed them to understand why it could never be allowed to happen again.

"Inscribe this," Memnos commanded, "Erad son of Erath."

Diligently the serf went to work, etching the name onto the Chains of Shame in microscopic detail. After it was done Memnos declared, "He came to us with trust in his heart and we repaid him by pouring poison into his lungs."

The gathered Apothecaries looked uncertain but Memnos pressed on, "Babos of the Southern Isles, he thought we would give him a chance to become like us, instead we poisoned his liver and watched him die. Vasar of the arctic iceflows, he swore to serve our Chapter, yet we rewarded him by rupturing his carotid artery. Merebo born in the jungles of Trux, he sailed the stars to fight alongside us and in return we riddled his bone marrow with cancers."

Several of the Apothecaries were looking queasy now as realisation stole over them but Memnos pressed on, reciting every name and the manner of death. As he did so each name was etched onto his chains, he would carry them with him evermore. As his brethren looked on Memnos recited three thousand seven hundred and thirty names.

He had sworn never to forget a single one, he owed them that much.


	49. Chapter 49

**Domus Discordia Chapter 49**

The sun blazed down the Fortress-Monastery, blanketing the island with waves of heat. Everywhere teams of serfs laboured to make good the damage wrought in the civil war, to unmake the scars left behind. Already much of the destruction had been repaired and soon the rest would be undone. Unlike the last time war had come to the home of the Storm Heralds, this time the physical damage was slight, sadly the wounds to the Chapter's spirit were much more grievous.

Toran reflected upon this as he looked out over the island. He was currently waiting outside a temple on the surface, taking in the activity. With him was his command squad, all joining him to reflect upon recent events. They had seen betrayal, they had seen kin-strife and loss and yet here they were, ready and willing to fight again. Furion in particular seemed eager to be headed out to the stars. Toran didn't know what the Chaplain had experienced during his investiture but it seemed to have had a profound effect on him. Never before had he seemed so fervent in his zeal, in his dedication to the Emperor's will.

Novak was looking at the new Chaplain with a thoughtful expression upon his scarred face. Furion glanced over and said, "What?"

"I'm just wondering," Novak mused, "Do we have to call you Father Furion from now on?"

"That depends," Furion stated.

"On what?" Novak asked.

"On whether you desire to have me break your jaw," Furion stated in a deadpan tone.

Everybody chuckled at that and Toran said, "I think we can dispense with all those ritual titles, elevating our Chaplain's arrogance so played no small part in their fall."

Persion changed the subject saying, "So when do we deploy?"

"Before the sun sets," Toran answered, "We cannot linger, many worlds cry out for aid and we will answer."

Novak asked, "Where are we going?"

Toran thought about it and then replied, "The worlds of the Angle's Run tributary are our highest priority. Those worlds feed the munition factories of Angle's Redoubt and the Imperium desperately needs those guns. Then the worlds leading to the Herculan Deeps require our aid. Beyond that, I do not want to speculate."

Persion mused, "We will not be home again for a long time."

"Good," Jediah snarled, "I've had my fill of intrigue and civil strife. I want a straight forward war to get whet my blade's edge; I yearn for a righteous slaughter to clear my head."

"This has been harrowing," Furion commented, "We have seen strife and miracles in equal measure."

"Speaking of which," Novak said, "Here comes one now."

Toran peered into the distance and saw a strange sight. Coming towards him was the mighty form of Honourable Ajax, the Dreadnought was headed right at them without deviation but he wasn't alone. With him came the forms of the Honour Guard in his refurbished armour and Terminator Sergeant Orath, in pale blue robes. It was odd to see the egotistic warrior out of his armour, the Tactical Dreadnought plate lending him a bulk and weight beyond his frame. Yet the ancient plate needed constant maintenance and care, its belligerent spirit more demanding than conventional power armour.

The trio pulled up short and then Ajax rumbled, "FINALLY, THIS IS WHERE YOU HAVE BEEN HIDING."

Toran bowed and replied, "Honourable Ajax, how may we assist you?"

Ajax looked down at them and intoned, "MY KIND ARE RETURNING TO OUR STASIS-CRYPTS, OUR ANGER EBBS AND WITHOUT IT OUR ABILITY TO HOLD THE BURDEN OF THE AGES AT BAY DWINDLES. YOUNG TONNANT FLAMESWORD INTENDS TO KEEP AN EYE UPON SECOND COMPANY FOR A TIME, BUT AS FOR THE REST OF US, WE MUST SLEEP."

Toran replied, "We thank you for your aid, your power and wisdom saved us."

"YOU DID THAT," Ajax replied, "YOU GAVE US THE FIRE TO RISE ONCE MORE, YET NEVER DID WE EXPECT TO SEE SUCH MIRACLES. ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN WALKS THE STARS… IT IS A NEW AGE. I HAVEN'T EXPERIENCED SUCH A SENSE OF WONDER SINCE I WAS A MERE THOUSAND YEARS OLD."

Toran replied, "We are privileged to have fought beside you. Sleep well and know that you have our gratitude."

Ajax turned and stomped away but after two steps he paused, his waist gimbal turned slightly and he said, "ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN WALKS THE STARS… you will wake me should he come this way, won't you? I would hate to miss a chance to see him ."

Toran noted the shift in tone and reassured his ancient Brother, "You have my word."

With that Ajax stomped away and as they watched him go Novak wondered, "When we will see him again?"

"When we need him most," Furion replied confidently.

At that the Honour Guard spoke up, "I too must take my leave, I have much to do. My order requires rebuilding and such a labour cannot be rushed."

Furion inquired, "Do you have any candidates in mind?"

The Honour Guard nodded, "Several First Company warriors are suitable."

"The strongest?" Jediah queried.

The Honour Guard shook his eagle-masked helm and replied, "There is more to my order than strength, one must have unblemished honour and a total dedication to the principles of the Chapter."

Toran commented, "May the Emperor smile upon your endeavours, we are confident that you shall succeed."

The Honour Guard looked upon the Captain and said, "I wish to thank you for your trust in me, you saved me from making a terrible mistake. I nearly handed victory to Lessall and his scum."

"There is no need to thank me," Toran said, "You were there for us when the time was right, it is I who should be thanking you."

"Fight well and when you return the Chapter shall be well on its way to recovery," The Honour Guard stated. Then he nodded and took his leave. Toran was glad that he had survived the war, it reassured him to know that such paragons of honour yet remained at the heart of their Chapter.

However at that point Orath spoke up to say, "Amazing, you really do take ten words to say what can be put into one."

Toran turned to face the Terminator Sergeant and said, "Have you come to say goodbye too?"

Orath smirked and replied, "Quite the opposite, in fact I am here to inform you Chapter Master Phalros has assigned my squad to your command. I am coming with you."

There was a surprised intake of breath behind Toran and he well understood why. He wasn't sure he would welcome the brash and arrogant Sergeant amongst their close-knit ranks, he'd had more than enough of that from the late and unlamented Mylos. Toran almost thought of asking Phalros to assign another squad but then he chided himself. Orath was a veteran warrior, as lauded as any in the First Company and after seeing him in combat it was quite obvious that he had good reason to be arrogant.

Toran brushed off his moment of angst and stated, "We shall be glad of your company, your presence will be welcome among us."

Orath chuckled, "See if you can keep up with me. In combat I wait for nobody, not even that slovenly Assault Sergeant Lorath."

"Oh?" Novak asked, "You've met?"

Orath explained "He shot at me, I am not about to let that go. An honour duel would not suit in the current climate so we have agreed to a friendly competition to settle the matter. He has this laughable notion that he can match my kill tally in battle, I am relishing the chance to put him in his place."

Toran glossed over the matter saying, "I look forward to seeing you at the front, not to mention the faces of the enemy when they see you bearing down on them."

"We shall teach the scum to know fear," Orath stated confidently, "Until then I need to tend to get my weapons blessed."

Orath bowed slightly then strode off, ever impatient to be back in combat. As he departed Novak muttered, "Great Lorath and Orath, twins in soul, twins in name. Two of them; just what we need."

Furion admonished him saying, "Give credit where it's due, we shall be glad of such fiery spirits when we march to war."

Toran was about to agree with him but then he saw Persion was staring upwards and inquired, "What is it?"

Persion replied absently, "I was just thinking… where do you think Roboute Guilliman is right now?"

"Somewhere blood-soaked no doubt," Jediah said with relish, "Mark my words; he'll be right in the thick of the worst fighting."

Toran disagreed, "I am not so sure; he never had a reputation as a berserker. The legends paint him as the perfect statesman, a world-builder, not a ravager."

Novak grinned and said, "You do realise this means you need a new war-cry."

"Oh?" Toran asked not following his point.

"That one about the memory of Guilliman" Novak quipped, "Hard to memorialise somebody when they're not dead."

That provoked chuckles from all and Toran sighed, "I'll think of something just as soon as you start being serious."

Furion exhaled loudly and changed the subject, "Ajax was right, this is a new age, nothing is the same as it was."

Persion frowned and said, "When I think of him I feel odd, there's this slight quiver to my pulses and my thoughts go light."

Toran knew exactly what he meant and he said, "It is like my spirit responds to the very thought, my gene-seed feels the call of its source and yearns to be united with it. I've never felt the like."

Furion drew in a breath and said, "It is the sensation of hope, pure unadulterated hope. For ten thousand years our hope has been limited, our only ambition being to hold off the inevitable end, to fend off Chaos for one more day. We have been restricted to the idea that we can only keep things as they are, that tomorrow will be the same as today or worse. Yet with the Primarch's return there is genuine hope at last, that the future will not be dark and bloody, that tomorrow might be better than today."

"A better tomorrow," Jediah mused, "What a peculiar notion, I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that before. It's so aberrant that it's never even occurred to me."

Novak jested, "I think that skull-helm is too tight, it's done something funny to Furion's brain."

Toran however agreed with the Chaplain, "It is indeed a new age, a fresh chance for us and all humanity. The past is done and the future is a blank page, we can write a new saga upon it."

"Not quite," Furion commented, "First we must close this book; first we must honour our dead."

Toran bowed his head in acknowledgement and turned to face the temple behind them. The squad came with him as he ascended a short flight of steps and entered the shrine. Within they were confronted by the black wall of marble that was the Rock of Heroes, the memorial to all those who died with true valour.

Toran stepped forward and pulled a short chisel from his belt as he said, "We must honour the fallen, all those who died to save the spirit of the Storm Heralds."

Furion declared, "They laid down their lives to safeguard our principles and ideals and they died for their Brothers. So long as the Chapter survives each and every one of them shall be commemorated."

Jediah affirmed, "They were strong and resolute, not like a sharp dagger but as a stalwart shield

Serious for once Novak stated, "They died in the service of a noble cause, may we all be so fortunate."

Persion looked sad as he said, "They shall be missed, the Chapter is poorer without them."

Then Toran declared, "We thank them for their service and swear that we shall always remember them."

Then he placed the chisel to the black surface and began to carve. He would inscribe the names of each one of the fallen Primarch's Own but the first name he carved was the greatest and most mourned of all: Bylan.

 _The Storm Heralds will return in Cinere Tempestas_


	50. Chapter 50

_Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story: Indomitus Bellum_

 **Somewhere, Somewhen**

The ship's compartment was filled with darkness and cold. It was a close blackness, suffocating and tight, pressing in from all sides. The bare metals walls were lined with frost, where the atmosphere had frozen solid on the super-chilled surface and lines of thick pipes ran overhead, caked in ice. The darkness was everywhere; it oozed through the corridors and crawl-shafts. It squatted in the Enginarium, it ruled the bridge and it filled the holds end to end. Yet it was not total, for in that darkness, light moved.

Deep in the bilges a sharp beam of light erupted, an incandescent ray of pure white energy. It swept the hold with clinical precision, probing and examining each corner in minute detail. After a moment it seemed satisfied that there was nothing else present and it lowered slightly, revealing a shape behind it. It was roughly man-shaped but bulkier and much taller. It was clad head to toe in ceramite, with huge pauldrons and a long rifle in its hands. Had there been anyone present they could be forgiven for thinking that this was one of the Adeptus Astartes but they would have been quite wrong, this was something else: something new. The armour was subtly different, the weapons enhanced and the genic alterations within this being were of a different order. He was a Primaris Marine and his designation was Primaris Lieutenant Henrique Smyth.

Lieutenant Smyth looked around the bilge and was satisfied that there were no threats present. His Mark X Tacticus armour was easily capable of penetrating this gloomy darkness, the autosenses in his systems the fruits of Mar's most secret labours. In fact every part of his equipment was improved and enhanced, having been perfected over ten thousand years of refinement by that strange polymath Belisarius Cawl. Smyth could summon multi-spectrum scanners and microscopic vision with a mere neural-impulse, faster and more precise than anything seen before in the Imperium.

Smyth took one last look around and then voxed, "Clear!"

From the darkness came a chorus of cries, each calling "Clear!"

Smyth relaxed a hair, but still kept his auto bolt rifle with its boxed ammunition clip steady as five more figures emerged from the darkness. Like him they were clad in Mark X armour but their weapons were the more conventional Mark II Cawl pattern bolt rifles. These were Intercessors, the new paradigm of gene-enhanced troops and their sergeant called, "Compartment secure."

"Very good Sergeant Yones," Smyth replied then widened his vox frequency and called, "Clear Captain, you can proceed."

From behind them came heavy stomps, ringing in the dead air as more Primaris emerged, led by a heavier and broader warrior. This marine was fitted with reinforced plates and a golden halo over his head. His left hand was encased in a giant gauntlet, with a small bolter fitted in imitation of the legendary Hand of Dominion. This was the prototype Gravis Armour, the heaviest defence available to the Primaris armoury and its bearer was called Captain Kieva.

Kieva looked about and briskly asked, "Contacts?"

"Nothing Sir," Smyth responded, "No signs of life."

Kieva's helmed head turned to take in the bilge and he said, "Keep alert, something killed this pilgrim ship and I want to know what it was. Keep moving, I want this ship cleared in record time. The senior Astartes commanders are watching us from afar and I want those obsolete relics to see the superiority of the Primaris paradigm. The Black Templars boasted they could sweep a ship this size in three hours, but I expect the Unnumbered Sons to do better."

"As you command," Smyth complied smoothly, "For Terra and for Mars."

"For the Omnnissiah," Kieva replied distractedly, then moved on.

Smyth hurried to move out ahead of him, hastily ducking into the next passageway. As they walked his vox blinked a private link request and he opened it to hear the voice of Sergeant Yones proclaiming, "By the Red Sands, he's full of himself, isn't he?"

Smyth kept his eyes front but commented, "He's just eager, he wants to prove himself as much as we do."

"This is a mere Beta-test, he didn't have to come along," Yones griped, "One dead Pilgrim Ship drifting into the Indomitus Crusades' outer perimeter. Just like a hundred other derelicts we've swept. This will be no different."

"Careful," Smyth chided, "Don't let your guard down, anything could be on board, Xenos, Traitors or Warp entities. Remember what the old Astartes tell us, a moment of distraction could kill you."

Yones growled tetchily, "That's another thing, why are we dragging around those tired old fossils? The Indomitus Crusade has Primaris Marines; we don't need those relics looking over our shoulder. They will all be retired and replaced with superior Primaris Marines in a decade or two anyway."

Smyth privately agreed, all Primaris knew in their hearts that the days of the old Astartes were numbered but he still said, "The Lord Commander wants us to work with them, we need their armies… for now."

"Error-shunt-abort," Yones cursed, "Months we've been out of our stasis-tubes and I've yet to fire my bolt rifle in anger. It's insulting, when are we getting rotated to a front-line combat unit with the other Primaris?"

"When the Lord Commander thinks we are ready," Smyth responded, "Now focus on the mission or I'll send you back for retraining. See how you like fighting simulated wars against servitors on the Red Sands of Mars."

Silence fell as the Primaris closed upon a junction, yet nothing else emerged to challenge them. Smyth was about to declare the passageway clear but then one of the Intercessors held up a small auspex and called, "Picking up a Vox-beacon, it's weak but definitely there."

Smyth glanced over and saw it was Maral, one of the other breed of Primaris. Whereas as Smyth, Yones and Kieva claimed descent from Guilliman, Maral was a son of Corax. The Lord Commander had recently instituted a policy of mixing blood-lines in squads, to foster co-operation and the spread of skills. Smyth wasn't sure it was a good idea but it wasn't his place to question orders, he was far too lowly to have even set eyes upon the Lord Commander, all of them were. Besides they were Primaris Marines, they could handle anything.

Smyth voxed, "Captain, detecting vox-beacon, requesting permission to investigate."

"Granted," Kieva replied, "Good hunting."

Quickly the Primaris moved into the adjacent passageway, tracking the weak vox-beacon. The Intercessors moved in crisp sweep and clear patterns, as described by the Lord Commander in his brilliant revisions to the stagnant tactical doctrines of yesteryear. Smyth was proud to be serving such a genius and it filled his hearts to think he took orders from such a virtuoso of strategy. How the old Astartes had coped for millennia without him baffled the Primaris Marine.

As they probed the darkness ahead one of the Intercessors, Arkias of the blood of Dorn, called, "Bodies!"

Smyth peered and saw that there was indeed piles of corpses laid out on the deck. They had fallen in limp piles, with no signs of conflict or strife evident. Smyth knelt to examine them and muttered, "No signs of struggle or violence, it looks like they just laid down to die."

From behind him Nabalai, of the blood of Ferrus Manus, pondered, "Life-support failure?"

Smyth disagreed, "There's too much decay here, they should be flash-frozen, but look at them they seem to have aged centuries."

Indeed the bodies appeared withered and mouldy, little more than scraps of cloth wrapped around mottled bones. There was a sense of immense age around them, like they had been here for aeons, yet the vessel around them was pristine, well as much as any dilapidated Pilgrim Ship ever was. Smyth reached out and picked up a bone but snarled when it crumbled in his grip, dust pouring out between his gauntlet's fingers.

He heard Sonatas, of the blood of Sanguinius hiss, "I smell the corruption of the Warp on this place."

Smyth hastily dropped the crumbling bone and wiped his gauntlet on a bulkhead saying, "Stay alert, I don't like this."

He straightened up and directed the Intercessors to move on to the next hold, ducking through a small hatch as they did so. They were alert and ready, yet as they entered Yones caught the elongated length of his bolt rifle on the jamb, causing him to recoil. Yones backed up then sheepishly stepped inside, but Smyth glared in indignation.

Not wanting to diminish a Sergeant in front of his squad the Lieutenant opened a private vox-link and said, "If the old Astartes saw that, they'd be laughing their heads off."

"Don't go on," Yones growled, "It won't happen again."

Smyth let the matter lie but inside he was fuming, mistakes that that offended the dignity of the Primaris. Their superiority was evident to any with eyes to see, yet the old Astartes pretended not to be impressed, they insisted they could match any feat. The idea was laughable and yet somehow, time and time again, the Primaris kept being eclipsed in battle by those they were supposed to be replacing.

It was galling.

Suddenly Maral hissed, "contact!" Instantly every weapon came up and shone focussed stab-lights into the dark hold, probing for threats. Smyth swept his auto-senses through their various vision modes and in seconds he made out shapes. He was surprised to see that they were somewhat similar to his own form, with thick ceramite and rounded pauldrons. Yet these warriors were also lesser, shorter and with more compact weapons that looked underpowered to his eye.

Smyth set his helm to external address and shouted, "Halt! In the name of the Lord Commander halt and lower your weapons!"

The coming shapes hesitated then a voice rang back, "Whom do you serve?"

Smyth proudly responded, "I am Primaris Lieutenant Smyth and we serve Roboute Guilliman!"

There were a few moments of stillness and Smyth heard the distinct clicking of vox's as the unknowns hurriedly talked among themselves. Then a voice called, "Hold your fire, we swear fealty to Him on Terra. We are coming out, with our weapons lowered."

After a moment Smyth saw the shapes emerge into the radiance of their stab-lights, there seemed to be half-a-dozen of them, all in the obsolete Mark VII armour. Their armour was blue, with grey pauldrons, chased with gold. Their shoulders bore an icon Smyth didn't recognise, a spiral in starburst and he assumed they were from one of the lesser, mongrel Chapters that had sprung up over the millennia.

Smyth was about to speak but then another figure stepped into the light, this one clad in black and adorned with decorative skulls. He had a skull-helm too and golden Crozius in his hand so that nobody could mistake his rank and role: a Chaplain.

Smyth kept his auto-bolt rifle trained but called, "Who are you? What Chapter are you from?"

The Chaplain paused and raised his hands then replied, "We are but humble warriors, driven from our home by foul Heretics and Traitors. We have no Chapter, no place to call home anymore."

Smyth's suspicions stirred and asked, "What happened to this ship?"

The Chaplain lowered his skull-helm sadly and answered, "Gellar field failure, the Immaterium broke in. It killed everybody and left us adrift; we don't even know where we are."

Smyth wasn't convinced and questioned, "Then how did you survive?"

The Chaplain explained, "Our faith in the Divine Emperor sustained us."

"Oh great," Yones hissed over the vox, "Emperor-worshippers, just like those fanatical Black Templars."

Smyth ignored that and barked, "How do I know you're not tainted?"

The Chaplain moved his hands apart, to indicate no threat and said, "Call forth your Librarians, scan our minds to ascertain the truth."

Smyth growled, "Oh, we will do more than that, the Lord Commander has Grey Knights at his disposal."

"The Grey Knights are real?" the Chaplain uttered in a surprised tone, "I thought they were a myth. Anyway do what you will; I must speak to the Primarch most urgently."

"The Primarch!" Smyth laughed, "You're not going within an astronomical unit of him."

"Then somebody else with authority," the Chaplain urged, "I bear dire news that must be heard."

"Captain Kieva can hear your plea," Smyth growled, "But only after you tell me it first and your name."

"Very well," the Chaplain stated, "I am Megaro, late of the Storm Heralds and I bring word of Heresy spreading in the Saint Karyl Trail. Tell Roboute Guilliman this: the Storm Heralds Chapter has turned renegade!"


End file.
